Outside the city in the garbage dump under the bridge
The most senile poet of my language chews bread dunked in tea

This man invented poetry even before Afzal*
All three hundred and thirty million Gods live in his beard as lice
The hairs on his body are all his unwritten poems

He furrows words in air with his fingers
In this way, he writes to his past every night a letter
Which is lost even before an envelope is found

Once before dying
At least once
He hopes that he'll recall the face and name of the woman
Who at one time slept with his book of poems
Pressed under her pillow