The soil at Kalma is dark,
dry,
smelly.
Oh, that odor!
Worse than cow plop.
Thick and sickening, it is.
A sour mix of rot
and sorrow,
rancid trash,
decaying memories.
Kalma’s twigs
are limp,
rubbery
reeds of nothing.
It’s as if they’ve lost all will
to grow.
These sickly sticks don’t spread
or poke—they wither.
I try to snap a twig from trees
and bushes,
but to do it, I must wrestle.
with gritted teeth,
fighting to break off a branch,
while at the same time working to breathe away
the filthy earth,
stinking,
and rising to greet me.
There is so much sadness
in Kalma’s dirt.
No life in this camp’s branches.
Flimsy,
wiry,
withering souls
whose trees are just as weak.
I don’t want to draw,
at all,
on this rancid land,
with these meek,
rubber strands,
so bendy.
My hand’s dance is gone.
My sparrow has lost its wings.
Goz, I miss you.