Though the dirt reddened my eyes, all that cried was my eyes.
Now my heart is crying out, for my old, peaceful dusty street.

Now I miss the heat; not the smoldering sanctuary that cremated them -
I miss twelve o’clock on the equator - on us the lazying lenses beaming down.
Though the rays darkened my skin, all that darkened was my skin.
Now my heart glooms, longing for those hot, slow afternoons.

Now I miss the smoke; not the billowing marker of mayhem -
I miss the ghostly smog of the city - man and machine getting along.
Though the fumes oft choked my lungs, all that choked was my lungs.
Now I am choking up, at the memory of the normal chaos.