It rained a lot.

Rivers flow. Red becomes green. The cup of life fills.

Of course when I venture into the central desert it becomes a tropical wetland...

Is this an omen?

Rivers flow so aggressively they separate community.

Red becomes green that invades the natural landscape to feed industry.

The cup of life fills to feed the flies that rummage the corpses of drowned animals.

Did my presence spur the elements to colour the colonial brush onto the canvas?

Perhaps I should be elsewhere?

Yet I cannot come home

It yearns for a new day. When the green blossoms, the rivers flow, and the cup of life fills.

Yet...

Rivers flow with blood. Green turns to red in the streets. Two machines fill their assembly lines with death.

Lavender smoke in the sky. Rose petals on the concrete. Two voids living it all dying.

But in the desert, I see red. Not on the ground, where it should be. But it is still around me. It keeps the void away.

The machines around me, metal trees of rust planted into ground, coloured to match the small patches of red that I now see under my feet beneath the green.

Red trees, red pipes, red cups...a red landscape.

The ghost is in the machine.

It awaits for the soil to turn red again.

A new day will come.