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.



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