There is a monk on a hill, building a new road to a monastery, that few visit, cutting through stone like crumbling cake, talking of revolutions, insurgencies, unspoken things. Stone mouths, crack open on the new road.
People go up and down, by different routes, study travelling away, coming back,
uncovering what has never been said.
I walk back down, by the long road, the monks shows me the way, pointing with his long wooden stick, warning of monkeys in the trees, dogs in the bushes.
Stepping over the railway line, that my friend helped to build as a child, seeing the sun hit the rails, going to join her now, years later, where she is the one quietly travelling.