Seven thousand stories for the seven officials,
then eight thousand,
nine thousand,
ten
but none of my fantasies are false enough
to rescue me
from these people who keep shouting:
TELL THE TRUTH!
So instead of speaking I begin to dream
of the various saints’ opinions
on the location of paradise
east, west, north, south,
up, always up,
never down
I dream of my mother and brothers
free in their small bell-shaped hut
thatched with singing, wind-rustled,
dry leaves of palm
they are free
so am I
more or less
I dream of streets, narrow and shady
to protect the people walking on them
from sun
cobblestone streets that follow the directions
of the four invisible winds
I see the winds flying
escaping from
town