“For how can I be sure I shall see again the world on the first of May.”
My window was a painted sunset, in floating strokes of purple, orange, and raspberry’s blood. I played a song about roses and taste of hope, my hips swaying free of audience, but mindful of the noodles not to be soggy. Dinner has to make the moon smile.
After eight days who cares about noodles, sunsets, moon, May blooming.
On a screen, I watch my motherland sink into another level of doom – one refresh at a time. There’s no smoke but I’m on fire.