Poetry

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.