Wandering among twisted streets on long dry afternoons,.in those shrieking bazaars that are a conspiracy whispered.through the broken teeth of pavements, I am made.homeless by distance. I would like the horizon to-travel.with me like in the old days when the air was cool as a.white reed and the far houses wore the deep colours of.evening. But these are neighbourhoods wide as towns,.where each house hums a different silence—like a family.in which no one has spoken to the others for days. And.the restless roads unfold without end—a tumult of.forgetting that even the clouds cannot measure..I hoard the day's few treasures and bring them out when.day-light dips behind the city's far terraces. I like the wild-.eyed mask on some quiet awning, the lusty grape, the.fever in the eyes of old, diffident men who walk in those.burning mornings where cars insult stillness and.motionless trees behind public walls refuse to yield their.sweetness to the air. The cries of bare-footed flower-.sellers in the early morning, the wind sifting like tinkering.rain through the fronds of one proud palm, the names of.playing children shouted into the twilight—these ate my.flimsy refuges..O night, O night within night, I want to peel you like the.mystical forgotten onion. These distances mock at my.gifts and I have no maps. I want sitting here, to discern.the deep movement of rivers and women's voices made.tender by dawn, the rooftop weeping of cats in the heat.and the magical breathing of electric cables—just a few of.those palpable signs that make the city stir beneath one's.desolate heart. But I make my home alone, in unlikely.places: the dark comforting corners of restaurants, the.window in which a leaf moves and changes, the calm bed.ever anchored to the morning's dull and tepid light.
Wandering among twisted streets on long dry afternoons,.in those shrieking bazaars that are a conspiracy whispered.through the broken teeth of pavements, I am made.homeless by distance. I would like the horizon to-travel.with me like in the old days when the air was cool as a.white reed and the far houses wore the deep colours of.evening. But these are neighbourhoods wide as towns,.where each house hums a different silence—like a family.in which no one has spoken to the others for days. And.the restless roads unfold without end—a tumult of.forgetting that even the clouds cannot measure..I hoard the day's few treasures and bring them out when.day-light dips behind the city's far terraces. I like the wild-.eyed mask on some quiet awning, the lusty grape, the.fever in the eyes of old, diffident men who walk in those.burning mornings where cars insult stillness and.motionless trees behind public walls refuse to yield their.sweetness to the air. The cries of bare-footed flower-.sellers in the early morning, the wind sifting like tinkering.rain through the fronds of one proud palm, the names of.playing children shouted into the twilight—these ate my.flimsy refuges..O night, O night within night, I want to peel you like the.mystical forgotten onion. These distances mock at my.gifts and I have no maps. I want sitting here, to discern.the deep movement of rivers and women's voices made.tender by dawn, the rooftop weeping of cats in the heat.and the magical breathing of electric cables—just a few of.those palpable signs that make the city stir beneath one's.desolate heart. But I make my home alone, in unlikely.places: the dark comforting corners of restaurants, the.window in which a leaf moves and changes, the calm bed.ever anchored to the morning's dull and tepid light.
