Long before the dawn,
my grandfather’s
whooping cough
mingled with
the cuckoo’s song
and the prayers
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of the flowing river
woke me up.
A fat stubborn fog
dances over the horizon.
It’s not that chilly yet
but I don’t want to
sleep anymore.
Every once in a while
a pristine bubble
of democracy
in the distance
would emerge
from the fog,
only to dissolve again
against the backdrop
of my grandfather’s
grey beard.
