Pleading for there to be an easier way,
On the shoulder of the only road.
Your shoes show in layers of red dust
The toil of your walk. Your cry
Will not be assuaged by me.
Pushing against the corner of a fence
With the might of a dung beetle,
Trying without luck to forget about
The bloody wound on its shoulder.
I saw that Kilpspringer once, though,
I feel like I see her everyday.