In the camp of dreams he s sitting on his balcony
the lights of his city now dimmed
the street blackened and empty
the clatter of crockery indicating life goes on somewhere;
in the dark
a distant rifle shot
a shell preceded by an ominous whistle
for someone is leaving the planet;
a child perhaps, his mother waiting for him
her throat dry, knowing not his fate
perhaps already a shroud.
The old man stares from a tent in Italy
plucking an oud; across the road a bakery
missing the scent of rose water and pistachio
the picture album in his mind needing revision.