"I want to propose a deal with the Bazar."
I see it in the words, Where your hand dragged over the wet ink.
For wounded soldiers rarely feel, Of throbbing hearts and broken skin.
Not even the asters accepting your gaze.
I would remember a face like this if I had seen it around.
I am a photo of a person, printed in black and white, in a newspaper.
The sound of your voice is a song.
Where could they live happily for the rest of their childhood?
To love a country as if you’ve lost one
Is to feel the freezing sun on your body
Form icicles on your cheeks as you train your feet
To dance hopscotch on rough asphalt;