Mommy,
When will you come again
To the stone city
From the salty one?
I can’t create a job,
But I afford to hire
Some buddies from the region
To garnish my domain.
In deep thoughts I’ll absorb:
Patience will overrun.
They ask for registration,
Apply a black ink into
Your palm to fingerprint,
Take photos side and front…
I blow up; you keep calm!
Are they too afraid
Of the poet’s mum?
Oh, does it make sense?
Mommy,
When will you come?
Or how long will I stay
In the most closed city
of the universe?
