In the ‘Safa Tempo,’ everyday whistles,
a chill exhaustion,
of the human struggle for survival.
Every day the smell of burnt human hope,
mingles with unwashed dreams,
reeking old sweat and limp manure
of the commuters’ unfulfilled wishes.
Safa Tempo, a metaphor of survival,
reminds me of the village I left behind,
and the lips I’ve yet to kiss.