It’s hard to resist a provocation dressed in your favourite colour; when summers become a case of scant apparels, and there is never enough breeze in the wind’s reserves to swathe the night moon’s forehead with a cool dampness; I cover my body with white thoughts from black books, learning the speech of the tarrying seas with its rightful pauses. There are cliffs facing my door sending in guests that will incubate on cold walls; there are trees facing my windows bearing nests greater in number for its branches can carry; there are youthful evenings that visit every moonrise bringing promises to settle in the pores of my garments; and there is memory of life – the musical shades of your footsteps arriving – First published on the blog The Song is...