On a dusty mountain path
the sound of revving motorbikes
breaks the river's flow
scarring forever these mountains
that have no where else to go.
I feel for them these rocky spires
that for so long have held heads high,
but now are being trampled daily,
by the immutable undertow
of swarms of people from below,
On this path where lovers meet
looking to find a way to repeat
the ancient dance of courtship
now so sadly banned by whip,
I see a certain sadness, replete
with desire:doomed, incomplete.
Young women full of life
covered in garb they do not like,
attempt with certain ingenuity
to reveal, even if slightly, their skin and hair
those proud qualities of every girl.
Young men with gelled heads held high
unaware of betraying a hidden sigh
exposed through the opening
of their dark and yearning eye.
The vendors and cafes try
to make a living
from this collective cry,
of a youth that wants,
nothing short of the sky,
But has to content itself
with a walk up a dusty path,
that turns around and comes back.
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