We hear inside of homes old air.
They say airy nothing, as bones
Have no marrow,their whispers
Hid from view in yellow stones.

There are no children in streets
But in empty roof terraces of air.
Their roofs are just some old air
A stratified layer felt in echoes.

Old air is like our air soon to be.
Homes are first a dust, then air.
We are in bodies soon to be air
With no stones only fire and air.

Old stones still have air in gaps.
Their stories are hid in crevices.
Desert rats made them homes
In the storied stone gasps of air.

(Kuldhara is an abandoned village near Jaisalmer, a ghost village deserted by its residents overnight in 19th century to escape persecution by a tyrant ruler)

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