Thus we sing...(4)

My ink is a sparrow looking for a grain of wheat.
I surrender to the appetite of writing by watching the street.

An old man is dragging his shadow behind him.
He stands still behind the clean window which separates us.
He stares at the two fish in my spicy dish.
He looks at me.
Before leaving, he fills his lungs with the air of this place.
I sip from my lemon tea and decide to watch him.

There he is crossing the street directly to the garbage cart.
He reaches out and excavates…
He reaches out and chews...
He reaches out and lives...

Indeed, a piece of bread, even if it is rotten,
may be enough to resist the overwhelming darkness of this world.
It is enough to save him from losing himself.

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