The rope of fire

A man sits in a tiny kiosk like a bird chick
Confined to a roosting nest, reaching out
Only for worms in its triangular baby beak.

A turban he wears and a red hue on his lips
With the tongued accent of a riverside city
Where you go to die to live for ever in heaven.

A white stuff on leaves makes clients redder
In dancing mouths with a gluey paste on leaf.
All they need is a white stick of fire in  mouths
To keep their business going, at constant debt.

The man has a coconut rope with  a fiery end
Tied to an electric pole, burning slowly like debt.
 Its fire is enough to light  white sticks all night.
 No need to see faces by the light of a match. 


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