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It looks like a silhouette,
Of death
but it is in its figure,
dearth, drought –the lave of hydrogen oxide growing less in every home.
The camels are dehydrated now, the cactuses are closing their stomata at 6 am, the clayey soil is cracking,
like the skin of a battered old woman, yet the words that sift through the radio are the grief of the dunes –as no feet wish to feel it.
In this land, nobody knows what to do; there is global warming, and the indigenes attend a virtual, to talk about how the contours on the map are turning wavy, as if, a problem, unsolved, needs another problem as its solution.
But how does one identify black when there’s always an insufficiency of light in a black room? The plants are yellowing, but we do not know if there’s a dearth somewhere,
or it is almost at its destination, death. In this same land, when you look closer, you will see that everybody is running away from dea(r)th, and no one really knows how to survive.
Survival is a girl who is willing to suffer from cramps but still retains the ability to swallow a Buscopan pill each time her brain tells her
it is cramps.

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