The palms of the tree hide me from the sun
The sand, golden gnats only after one
The air, burnt to a crisp, I inhale until it is undone
The clouds, twenty-four last time, now there are none
The birds, messengers that occasionally touch the earth
The water, where life gave birth
The fish, they look at me unable to conceal their mirth
The palms of my hands cannot hide the fact
I am alone.
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