Papa Alata
The little rising dust
Like brown water spray,
Of a fountain overburdened,
Junked up palm kernels noisy,
With torn – up tarpaulin tops
These wooden body Lorries,
Their blaring horns,
Like the unheeded mournful tones
Of a whale calling;
All in a confusion of burying humanity
That was the lorry station
Of the birds eye view.
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