In the ‘Safa Tempo,’ everyday whistles,
a chill exhaustion,
of the human struggle for survival.
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SAFA Tempo service starts
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.
