The Roads Where Dust Gathers Poem by Emmanuel George Cefai

The roads where dust gathers
the paces that on them arrive
fro men's shoes and the elegant and
sexy women's stilettos, all, all in
a hurry breathless in this life
of shortage breath:
the honking cars in succession
impatient of the time, and of
appointments and the way we dress
for them and out to be by others
seen:
and this and that
a hundred
a thousand mores and styles and
more
human humanity bustling, hurrying,
and yet
much like the donkey round the
water-mill:
and the day passes, darkens,
sometimes clouds,
and in the distant heaven-corners some
clouds gather round and round
and then the first thunder explosion heard:
till
sweet and tired in the arms of dusk, red dusk,
the day of sudden soaked in tiredness swoons,
swoons to the intense desires of the
stars and night
the wayward beauties of the curtained dark:
and then
the hustling and the bustling finishes:
and
in its termination some thinking realize
(musing their chin as old philosophy)
that
we be back another round around the
watermill
just that
just that