Memories that travel

Garam, Pankshin
a village on a hill in a valley.
First a tale of myth, a wonder of Plateau.
Tribal marks are rocks embedded to cover the sun.
Dog eaters, farms still engage stones as manure.
To bury a brother
a soul of a cold hand of time.
few soldiers, many hearts.
Beautiful girls, crazy skin.
Show glass of cold, few good men
Rotgak, Rotmua, Godiya, james I can remember.
I know your gates are always open to strangers
A breeze of muscas, a breath of Pito.
A small but wide clan
Egypt

Ruddapoet