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Pale Orange Dust

Thorn forests left open  Over the hot stretch of land Highly tall with outrighted hands    There is no shade under the palm trees
Laid with cement walls  Broken over the sides Channel having small squirms of water   Runs quietly as a tiptoed girl
Dried dung smells over the breeze Evening plays in the orange dust A group of shirtless boys Cross fast the forlorn street  Shrieking sound subtle the dust
It is the village Where I was born Where the leaves of succulent plants  Were plucked to kill the girl children The dust remains orange as of those days  With little paleness in colour I name the village,  As, Where I was once born  And Survived..
~ Ahila..

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