The air is arid, and the earth is brown,
like finely crushed stale coffee beans.
The strong smell of sulfuric acid is all around,
And I mount a large, dead hill.
As I plant my feet onto the dried-up hate
My footing slips, and fall deep down.
Once the coughing stops, and the dust dissipates
It’s clear to me there’s nothing to hold onto here
So I find my strength, and raise myself up
Through irritated eyes, my vision is clear:
My out is through the sharp, gangly trees,
Through an unfriendly terrain, I find my way
The sky is bright, but my body may freeze
If I linger in this wasteland for too long.