Puppet in a storm

Wild winds blow around,
Dust devils abound,
Straw roofs burn in hell,
Winds carry the familiar sound.

The town deserted, people gone,
Long has left the last bus,
Deserted streets etch the paths,
Through the storm will pass.

And yet in the midst of nothingness,
The puppet walks on,
The smiling printed plastic face,
Carrying since it was born.

Empty shacks on all sides,
Awaiting the storm's wrath,
Winds strip tiles of their roofs,
As he walks his usual path.

As the chaos unfolds all around,
The puppet smiles his practised smile,
Emptiness floods open walls,
To settle it may take a while.