then on the waving sugarcane flowers i exchange postcards from every city with the aroma of humid land of your country, the country cursed by mothers’ breasts. as the tales unfinished being read since we were born: they are stuck on the sky, on the constellation of hoe. cultivating the arid season, weeding dry fields burnt by the logic of men, then we are cursed as farmers. while fairytales are still blurry heard in the door of sleep, you remember, our stories feel so old yet their pictures are still stuck on the bedroom ceiling. while mother has no more time to read any stories.
then on what waving else can you search in the ruins of rooftiles of houses broken down by tears? while in the sky, as you once saw in your dreams, children are so absorbed searching the ruins, looking for their lost laughter. while in the barn i’ve been keeping in vain, still i write poetry on bamboo leaves, addicted to their cracking sound, picking up each blurry smile.
here, in these myopic cities, rice stems are no longer bowing down. collapsed upon the paved streets, crushed by words.