A Never-Ending Melancholy

The leaves in the garden near the wire fence that keeps children away from the train tracks reach out their verdant palms in extension towards the plethora of photons that they take for themselves. These particles in green make grow the effort to be there, to flourish, to continue. That effort at receiving is an awareness too of what the palm receives. It is delicate and yet enduring. It continues only so far into the void, kissing the abyss. These are reasons why I make phuta, who are not far from humans, my friends.

I wish, though, that such an odd place where we grow could have come to be in some manner where these lives and I do not need to come to an end and where the conflict between us did not sting so keenly.