things of the night

The wind will carry grains of dust

And build statues for my dreams

But they will be broken by the flash lights

Of American tourists.

The f16s eat the sky

In Diar Bakr

And my melancholy for jazz is making me feel guilty

I never though chewing the sky can be so noisy

Smoke will come one day

And overcome everything

By then I won’t be a man anymore

For most of you, I might not have even been.

But I will be sitting by the side of the road,

By the side of the road,

By the side of the road I will be telling stories.

I will be reciting lives of those who once were dreaming of
enough uncertainty to overcome reality.

To prove words still drank alcohol inspite of books, and
bodies still poured pleasure inspite of fashion.

There will be no negotiations;

I will either consist of color or I shall vanish

By will, by choice, by shade.