There is a desperate longing in silence,

stretching across these map-drawn borders

the govern your body and mine.

State kept secrets of

papers given and

stamps received.

Unions blessed

and people recognised.

–

It is never quiet here.

It is either the clanging of construction, the sharp whistle of a pressure cooker releasing, children courtyard scream-pealing,  the siren of factory workers’ break-time ending, dogs barking at other dogs or at trucks that rumble past, snatches of secret-conversations filtering up four flights of stairs and dissipating in the wind that swirls through every open pore.

–

I yearn for it: for silence, for things to simmer down, for a bit of peace in all the chaos. Even when the construction workers have gone home for the day, when the dogs have quietened as dusk settles, when the kitchens are closed, and children are tucked into bed, there is more noise than there is quiet.

Perhaps it is my brain that is too loud, that doesn’t know to power-down, to whisper instead of shout, to stop and breathe instead of constantly running.

–

It is never quiet here.