There is always something under
Under the great piles of rock
And loose fabric of mossy debris
There is something
Alive
Or dead.
Secrets germinating
And the crystal hearts of silica mushrooms
Where light barely enters
Or a pile of budded eggs
That belong to a polygamous mother
Secrets damp and bursting
Slowly silently under.
A microscopic world
Encrusted under.
- Naychi
early 2018
like to be Nat Sin street, Yangon
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