Desh

I want the muck, and the ruck, and the fuck. The noise, the dust, the rust, the must. I want to see it all. I want to live within it.

I want to look beyond walls, to the country, to the land made from fire and tears and a billion ghosts. Real as dust staining our shoes, our pants, our socks.

There is nothing without truth, the dirty truth that lives between rocks eating the soil. The worms in the compost without which nothing grows.

So give me all the worms, bring them to me so I can eat and be happy, full and rich under the ochre sky. Intertwined and grasping like weeds on a still night.