DEATH SONG

Your lips are blue, almost black, and swollen with yellowish cracks carved into them.
Your cheeks are scorched, deflated tennis balls.
Your stomach is painfully-puffed up, in sharp, awkward contrast to your bony, mutilated, fragile frame.

THE HONEY POT

Amina soaps up her breasts, her thighs and her derriere.
Amina squats and washes her honey pot; it doesn't produce much honey these days.

WHEN I BREATHE NO MORE...

The sun's eyes will tear up and splatter gold nuggets all over the Universe...

The lesser-stars will converge in a huge circle and dance a most sprite-ly dance, their unparallelled flexibility causing sparks and shine to fly about in wild abandon...

The waters will rise from their stony beds and reign, torrential-ly, over people, animals and houses, like the spittle of a trotro driver,