I have traversed roads half empty.
Cluttered streets.
Only clinking of bells and a loop over my head.
Funny roads can conglomerate after years in disquiet.
They take you to people and wars,
in tainted shadows.
They can be bloody.
A little perturbed at finicky fun.
A little distraught at the news that men,
old women are dying like clothes
which are submerged in seas of torn despair.
These roads have an aroma of geography
and the count of politics.
Even dogs know that.
The wasted mongrel.
