The sad blue sky’s clear dust gropes its way down
toward the city,
The asphalt roads glimmer like ice.
Red lights dim, like eyes deprived of sleep,
trying to understand the great mystery of the morning.
An old man stands at an empty phone booth,
looking at his map
on which a thousand places are marked,
with no names.
His walking stick dangles on his arm,
a compass uncertain of the south, where
the sun throws a shadow.
a black cat,
jumps into an open window, the curtain tied back and knotted.
An army of houses stand vigil on the first day
of a lunar winter