A Sort Of A Poem Upon Arriving At The Mountain Hut

where it is? the native points to the place
using his nose. It is just near he said while chewing his betel nut.

we pass three winding rivers
and five hills on footpaths with mud and grass as tall as us along the way.

we finally arrive at the foot of a hill
below it a nipa hut

there is no one there
i curl up and take my sleep

meanwhile the fog swallows everything
just us.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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