there's time yet

and in the wee hours,

my soul stretches tight
across the streets
blinded by smog
and i'm thinking of
TS Eliot

my skin
is etched with images
of the Phoenix,
forever rising from the ashes

the morning grays
as the sun
slashes through the
under-construction ugliness
of Kathmandu squalor,
to reach my face

and i just know
there's time yet
before i give up on you