In the middle of a bustling hamlet,
Where the trees are dusty,
The roads, a hauntlet,
The people, their eyes worn,
The hot sun beating, Born
Of nothing but their whims,
This hamlet, is alien,
So forgotten,
Even by its ancestors,
Worn trees, torn news,
There is so little, so much
To amuse
The mind,
As the path meanders,
The hills they sully,
The dusty treats,
Weigh willy nilly.
This hamlet,
So alien,
What do I do here?
What do I do then?
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