Thigh the house
We write on the side of the house
We are here.
We eat the strangers of the street
To become the alley
A moon on the shoulder of the soul.
Wind wound
Tbouha is a violin
Lightning drinks his cup
And we drink the question.
Birds break the cold.
What’s the point of staying..?
And the olives were left for the windows
To make up for what remains
Who chanted at the end of us?
Put it in the mill…
