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Dust to dust


It’s time again. The time I was born. The time I’m more likely to die. The time of scratching and wheezing and coughing and sneezing and crushing fatigue. The time of the west wind.

It brings the poisoned dust of a cursed Land. A Land drenched in the blood of those from whom it was stolen. A Land choking on the fumes of its own burning entrails. A Land raped and raped again; for though it gives freely of its bounty it doesn’t do so quickly enough for some.

So I wheeze and I hack at the gunk in my chest and I wonder. Could the Land truly be toxic? Or is it trying to cough us up?

From → unclassified

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