Hot, stilted air
Breeze laying dead
Behind the branches,
Of the shrubs along the
Busy roads
Sickly-sweet,
Jasmine fragrance,
Artificial and dominating
Hangs in the air,
Waiting to be replaced
By the nasty, putrid odor
Of the slums and sewers,
Lining the streets
As soon as the air shifts
Wind will come,
A miracle we hope for,
When it does move the air,
A rush of even warmer breeze
Tickles our faces,
Replacing one desolate smell
With another one,
Until the blessing of rain
Shallow or deep,
Shifts the air again.
-Poem Fanatic
