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Miasma

To Be Gentle

I held my breath in from the miasma
Leaning on a dried-out shovel
Sweat slalomed down my gaunt face
Gleaming in the summer Sun

I looked at the cyclists passing by
The birds flying overhead, the horses grazing
I envied their luxury
Stranded on an island of dirt

I grieved my labor
And conceded to the incessant noise
Of flies and insects swarming my body