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There is cloth over
the door of the clay house
and old women, keep walking
in and there is a distinct sound
of wailing
that is too loud and the noise
is making patterns on the door,
yellow zig zags,
until I am an old woman
drawn in the doorway,
walking with every breeze.
Past the walls there is a
sky, with painted green grass,
sprouting orange buds,
wailing is in our ears, blowing us
around, ending the patterns of existence
and the purple mist therein.