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The drowsiness of a thunder—a mere tinkle nuzzles into the scent of coconut upon my neck. I observe a torrent coming; amidst the mist of its droplets plummet the subtleties of your mouth, and so I peel a clementine.
By the elegiac shades of the trees, the flesh of plums spills on God's palms as He kindles your motherland. This is the death of spring, I undress;
I shall make myself a new dress out of the embers of prayers that your mother utters upon seeing what you caused, how you awakened God's wrath.
My clementine is bittersweet— I surrender my silken dress, the one that made your mouth quake, to the flames. No birdsong, no cry of woe but a mere rebirth.
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