Under Construction (still)

The houses mushroomed with blue roofs
for almost a decade.
Settled dusts, dried paint
left their own craquelures.
Through the window, late morning lights
poured in different slants.
The cerulean roofs carried
hesitant bird chirps.
A tricycle travailed lazily
over the cracking asphalt road.
The rusted tractors parked
under an incomplete flyover
had, on their one-armed claws,
residues of leveled down
century-old trees.
A young boy led his reed-thin goats
to where the grasses still grew.
The old farmer who once owned
a little plot of that land, sighed
"houses should stand here
for the foreigners, the city dwellers,
that's what Mayor said.
But look, nine years after I gave up the land
they're barely sold yet."

Do not lift the pen

Do not lift
the pen. Don't
even think
about it,
excuses
to stray from
your penciled
gray outlines.

Think of those
light sketches
the way Earth
Mother made,
on her skin,
deep ridges
for rivers
to flow rich
ceaselessly.

Imagine
like rivers
your inkflows
layer on
the graphite,
thick imprints
of your hand's
careful, slight
signature.

Imagine
the quickness,
the swiftness,
the utter
thoughtlessness
letting lines
bear genius,
make mistakes.

Do not lift
the pen. Don't
entertain
doing it:
random strokes,
curlicued
adventures
dry quickly
from previous
glistening
wet daydreams.