These days are new.

Nevertheless, the weather has its own view.

There’s harm at hand, you know?

The harmattan man has returned from his journey of oblivion into our west.

Here, we already knows what he brings, we’ve seen his worst.

I think he enjoys it.

Afterall, he has returned to the home of his brother where he knows his wife brews the best ginger beer; his favorite.

Sharing his travel experience with his younger brother and sipping on some fine, freshly brewed ginger beer, what else could he ask for?

Nothing!

But for us, we ask for less reminiscence.

For the more he does such, he laughs.

And with a ginger beer breath, the air he spouts out of his dry lungs with hysterical wits;

Dries our skin and land.

Fogs our sight.

Crack our lips and foot;

And edifies flames.

 

This harm is though less than a greater one at large.

The land is thirsty.

And I can tell because when the harmattan man is in around, the land has always been thirsty.

But I can’t tell if its the harmattan man’s fault or not.

 

He may have as well dried our pockets since we are in a hurry in search of something.

What?

I do not know.

And with our fogged sight, cracked lips and paddling our cracked feet on the dry land in a search to edify our pocket of needs, we make our own harm at hand.

 

Harmattan man is in town.

The land is dry and thirsty.

It searches for anything to drink.

Water, bear or blood.

I plead not the latter.

And I pray I always remember that in search for better, beard can always be eating without butter.

 

via Asford Psalms

 

 

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