Indian Travels Poem by Wolfie God

The heavy sun beats down on the sandy grounds,
The dry dusty air beats a path on everything it touches.
Winds drift through the market, layering dust on everything.
Cries of the shop keeps resound through out the market.

My legs sturdy the bike beneath me, as I race though the hills towards town.
The buildings aged by the sands of time, beaten and pelted by grains of time.
The wells are dried and lost looking in this place.
Stone structures shadow the ground.
The ground is cracked with lack of moisture.

Gates of the city welcome me home, from a long journey.
Sun drifts along the sky like a chariot being drawn by golden horses.
The children scattered in the street with ignorant smiles.
Fruits dried on the pedestals and ropes of the market shine.
Feelings of home return slowly.

The market is crowded with thieves and merchants in the same.
Tents lined with exotic goodies, align the air with a fragrant smell.
Spices snap at my nasal passages like a tart pumpkin pie.
Colors splash across the market with gold’s and reds waving in the breeze.
Silver and brass sparkle in the sun, glittering like a lighthouse in the dark.

I breathe deep and take in the smells of the market, fresh and inviting.
How I missed the wonderful scents and sights of my lands,
Never again will I spend so much time away.
Off in the distance I hear the crackle of the guns,
Small children cheer at the sounds.

The pain fills my heart as they cheer,
They do not see that that is their future.
Guns and violence due to a corrupted system,
That will leave many young sons and daughters alone.