A man sits in a tiny kiosk like a bird chick
Confined to a roosting nest, reaching out
Only for worms in its triangular baby beak.
A turban he wears and a red hue on his lips
With the tongued accent of a riverside city
Where you go to die to live for ever in heaven.
A white stuff on leaves makes clients redder
In dancing mouths with a gluey paste on leaf.
All they need is a white stick of fire in mouths
To keep their business going, at constant debt.
The man has a coconut rope with a fiery end
Tied to an electric pole, burning slowly like debt.
Its fire is enough to light white sticks all night.
No need to see faces by the light of a match.
