The busiest plain lies deserted
Like an empty basket
Formerly full of heavy sand
Their hawking left behind.
Sleepy maidens
Behind their sales post
Like the silent cemetery;
Their wares
Like tombs scattered around
The night alone did this:
Sent them all away when it came;
Their wrappers and food waste lay behind
Awaiting the early brooms which will awake;
Food eaten in hand, the lonely voice
The blurring turret calling home the faithful
Gathered around the only TV.
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