The dust of light that inspired
the Jahili Poems increasingly burned my passion. When I could no longer contain it, I lit tobacco to blow the smoke to finish them off.
The smell of old words scattered.
The bitter rain filled the strange
feelings that were read on my lips. As if kissing
a stranger who also knew that we were lying to each other.
We were in a hurry because the fake identity in my pocket was a magical afternoon patrol. While crouching
at the window, the stranger stuffed
a dry book—and stone—into my pillow.
While lying down I planned a small riot similar to the simple loyalty of the most grandiose story:
I love someone like fire
the tip of the tobacco is almost to my lips.