sang chants of home in her heart,
even though the days of deserts and dusts
had been gone from her feet for years and more.
Her skin yearned for weathering, for hours
under a brutal master of cancerous heat,
for rougher roads and shoeless callouses.
Her ears cried for the pulse of hands on leather,
the dance of drums and the whisper of painted faces.
Only noises of the earth could comfort.
And yet, her skin touched no paint, but rather the too-soft caresses of
chemical clothes, and felt not the
warmth of clear copper skies,
but the hands of polluted streams
spouted through the air through mechanical jungle cats.
Her voice, clear and deep, and beautiful
like an alto sun, setting over a brilliantly reflected mesa,
no longer sung, but spoke flatly of company proposals to men,
with dull and unpainted faces, warriors of nothing,
in a chemical suit and a plastic building.
Her heart, yearning for a home of old,
knew not that home anymore,
but an unhappy one,
one of clock-in and clock-out, and ticking minutes hands,
one of orders and frowns, and dark rooms at home alone,
unsatisfied smiles, and forgotten homelands.
Spoiler
I tried to change language as the piece progressed to reflect the change, but I dunno if I made it clear enough. Also, does the end seemed forced, or too different?
Thanks!
Thanks!
