The patience of impure saints and casket-sized rooms flooded with delightful light, a war-torn place you love the most, the lime rice and you always change your mind, madness in a bee hive, chasing light and dead babies in plastic grocery bags, you want to go home, this is home.
Glasses on, glasses off, the other can't decide, it's like flypaper here, foreign tongues and our soft voices in the background, holy and heavenly crafted monasteries are glowing here, the sun has finally bloomed here, fertilized a white-hot orange sea of flame, a burning and severe eye in the magnificent morning sky, cloudy here and where you're going, right here, sweet time to listen, we were born like this, ice-cold and blue, frozen to the touch, sunshine, then the faded and thawing light behind the blinds broke through the drowsy branches and smiled on your sad, badly bruised and bludgeoned face.