The brown earth now an orange pit,
The hot afternoon air turned into mist,
And my modest cigarette lies invisibly in my empty hands
I look around,
Relaxed but not relaxed, new faces everyday
It’s like swimming in a research aquarium.
I don’t resent it, it’s cooling.
My modest cigarette blows a ring of smoke into the air,
I love how he does it, the wind blows it away though
You can’t catch it if you ain,t keen.
He speaks with a crude tremor, I aint listening to the wind no more.
My cigarette burns out,
I paint the dirt orange, i rise to leave.