The old poet looks from his thoughtful eyes
At the blue and white baby birthday balloons
Stuck like hearts to the roof, helpless on roof
As they had gone up from children’s mouths.
Then the children remember future birthdays
Of white cream on knowingly smiling faces.
Their parents are high on hot lentil soup among
Rags of unprovoked conversations of no ends,
Only tassels, shreds of silk, golden embroidered.
They will, back at home, cull the gold from them
In their sleep and melt them to increase riches.