The screens shouted and the opportunity beckoned me to remember her gaze.
A search party had been called, the helicopters have been roaring
The roman chronicles are blazing and my love cries.
Oh dumb me, libraries are only good for a shower and a book.
Along the smouldering rice pyres
Within ear shot of dancing mynas
And between the sequential whitewash gravestones
Were ceaseless chalky reminders
Of how far it would be until our travails were ending
Our eight spoked wheels no longer to turn
When we would collapse as if we were asleep
