In the harvested fields near the canal,
She roams with a mind that had slid from its rail.
Her muddy skirt and brownish hairs
Flutter in the salty wind like the flags of insanity.
Lonely nights - the west wind smells burnt canal fish.
Fire burns, far away on the bank, like her emotions.
“During the windy seasons, lunacy is let loose” –
Her night shrieks and shouts are thus neglected in the rural logic.
Her stomach swells like a senseless ball,
So many questions bulge out.