Swarming in the incense, this part of “The City” looked like a Turkish bath, and the books, old & cold, shivered in trays as they awaited their faux leather, While a wet winter wind whistled in the keyholes.
By the fallen, balmy cloud the fruits of cactus lay in a red cart like porcupines colored, tired of being on guard all the time. Their hues stirred the hunger of the centenary walls, so their fissures oozed and their latter-day hieroglyphs began to crumble. (c) LazharBouazzi