Masina*

The road has the appearance

Of velvet ribbon,

But feels like a washboard.

In the distance only fires

For cooking, for warmth.

Wind smells of smoke and grass

Stars like pinpricks overhead,

Not enough to compensate 

For the absent moon.

The night is ink 

Spilled across the dusty land.

Nighttime envelopes Madagascar.

His presence is here.

*The Malagasy word for “holy"