Phonsavan, Laos

A stretch and sprawl of plain and hill Where stones survive the coldest clouds, You’re jars and trails and scars Rebuilding your shattered face One hammered bullet at a time. The heart of Laos beats here, Desperate as a bush-meat market Of endangered beasts Hungry for change, Weaving adversity into opportunity. You’re a place where The long-haired goddess of Hope Is always itching to leave, but she’s A good daughter who always finds One more chore she’s needed for, Who never quite makes it out the door.