Tonight, I have promisednot to write after my country’s terrorno matter how many .22 calibersdrop dead from cartridges, or a colonyof compatriots disperses intothe wilderness of boneyards. I wantto forget…
The morning stars Amat and Ma’aat have yet to rise. If only I could sleep until then, but I already have my satchel and I’m already in the fields. Like always, I already curse the dawn. Each daybreak rolls into another, beautiful, with a hint of malice, always its own unique rose of needle-sharp thorns, blossoming anew with fading stars, feeding pigs, goats, chickens, and the blessed parliament of alaqilins who grow restless in the stables.
