City of dust

This is the city of dust
When it rains
When it doesn’t rain
When the road is pitched
When the road isn’t pitched
 
I’ve become a raconteur
This city’s madness tires to winkle me
Out of the old man’s sanity,
What is left to discuss the anomalies?
 
This city has a foul tactile
A feeling you can’t get anywhere else
 
This city soon will parlay my inability
To distinguish between dust and fresh air.
 
 
— Arun Budhathoki.

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