The nights they leave him alone,
he breathes in the pungent smell of jasmine.

They left us the land, he thinks.
And they left us tadpoles in the ponds.

Twirling tadpoles that, in the murky waters,
he watches competing non-stop.

But it is on the large rock that the eye stops blinking.
He watches her stare, underwater and stranger,
at the fast world that surrounds her.
From the stagnant bottom. Under the blanket of moss.
Endlessly it sinks deeper and deeper. Out of the way.

And out of the pond, think about how useless speed is
if you can't see the stones at the bottom,
if you don't have the time to stop and smell the jasmine.