The sand is wetfrom the forgotten rainthat poured over the streetsand shop corners last night.I may have been sleepingOtherwise, I would have known.
The wind cut its own throatleft a trail of torn limbs and bodiesstrewn on the street that leads tothe dead side of the townwhere no one knows the other.I may have been deafOtherwise, I would have heard.
Men sat in circlesOn rusted iron chairsAround a coffee potpouring steaming coffeefrom the kettle into the cupsfilling and refilling againnot looking at each othereyes fixed on the empty night skywhere the wheel of destinyappeared in the Eastern sky.I may have been in a nightmareOtherwise, I would have looked.
My footprints leave a trailof blood stains onpure white sandsoaked in moonlightto which the dew drops clingin a desperate last embracelike a dead man’s shoe.I may have been blindOtherwise, I would have seen.
Everything happens at nightwhile I am asleepwhile I am deafwhile I am blind.