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."