You saw him on the way
in the middle of the road
brushing the orange dust off his coat
disjointed.

He crossed the path
with a steady pace
leaving traces of dust clouds behind.

As he stood facing you
you could not but notice
the thin crimson scar on his left cheek
and his harsh voice penetrating
the bleak surrounding.

"I am an actor", he says
with orange powdered hair
and a pair of hands too small
for such cruel eyes.

"This is the set"

- and again you wake up,
as so many nights before,
in a panting agony, hot as before,
stupefied, silently outraged about
your own little cage of dusty images

Tomorrow you will sit beside me
on the cold brick wall
squeezing your juice box,
as if you'd known it all -

long before I have passed you
to those small hands
of a stranger.