We ran through the streets with our cheeks
burning from the cold, and our laughter chasing
the wind that carried the stories from the far edges
of the land.
Smoke rose from the fires in the distance,
and every step we took left a trace in the ochre
sand,
as if the earth remembered us.
Now, the mornings are softer,
the cold uncertain,
the dust comes in shy, hesitant whispers
The horizon no longer bleeds amber.
It is a different color, a different silence.
I taste harmattan only in remembering,
I touch it only in telling.
Harmattan, you have slipped away,
and with you a piece of our sky,
a piece of ourselves.