I was at the market
Surfing along well worn booths
Passing by idle buskers
Thumbing old good luck charms
Worn away
Here I smelled service
The toils of seven generations
Sweating in the fields
Sending wives to sell
Gnarled stone washed fingers
It is romantic
Startling romance amongst
Brutal ages
Suffering humbly
Expressive humility
And at night
Late at night when
Stray dogs find moving shadows
I wonder who
Sleeps more peaceful
