I trudge forward, the symphony of birds on either side of me a tranquil yet hollow replacement for the echoes of voices long past. The morning dew, infringed upon by a faint smokiness. 

I trek forward, blinded by the gilded orb indistinguishable from the malicious conflagration forcing me to the margins. My throat, suffocated by the millions of feudal thoughts escaping my mind.

I stop. The heat proves too insurmountable. With my brief reprieve returns the interminable flood of worries. Any hopes, dreams, and aspirations I had in this land, charred without a chance of return.

The contrast seems almost mundane. The dying smoke behind me a reality for people like me, both of us a stain on the verdant landscape. The smoke, a harbinger of destruction, and I, a thief of social unity.

A home shouldn't be welcoming. A lesson cemented in my complexion. My last bequeathal, my existence in the memory of foreign spectators, paralyzed at the sight of the thousands of similar struggles.