A bearded man sells  white flowing shirts
Down in the street,near the four minars. 
There  is a dazzling smile under his beard.
Friends are made except in the fruit garden.

The dog is barking this hour at its darkness
In the hollow of its throat,that never had
A regular leash, to tug at anybody's fingers.
Dogs are our best friends sniffing our leg.

We not only move in our friends circles 
But never come back to where we began.
We move in our  friends circles slowly
In  liquefied somnolence,  sleep resting
On  bellies of stale food fighting to  stay.

Our upper halls are flooded with friends
Drowning together in the chemical process
Of eyes turning pearls for sale to rich ladies
Cauterized in their early eyes of wonder.

We have our many friends in high places
With their  red eyes deep-set on  blaring vans.
Their rich wails sing of men's puny statures.
We are waiting for our eyes to turn pearls.


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