Why do I give you the bliss―
of my poverty?
The burden of asking, was light.

Not like the unquenchable
thirst of a desert. I will be a
night blooming cereus.

In exile, I will remember
your sky, tying the stars in
my poems, to recall your shades
when the moon moves away.

The sunlight throws the voiceless
profiles of clouds, motionless
suspended, waterless― dead.

There is no traffic, no history
of any scandles. The corners of
my prayer book have―
become dog-eared.