Pash lives here in the orchards 
plums		        apples  		 grapes 
oranges 	       apricots,
in the fields of wheat and cotton

The wind  	 the sun    	  pigeons 
the drowsy tractors
		          ask Pash: 
tell us: what was it like as a child,
	      and as a young man?
When cotton balls bloom like
clusters of stars in your dreams 
don’t you feel restless?
When you remember the sun
sliding on the sand dunes in your village, 
on the prison walls, in the dreams of the 
sleeping prisoners, don’t you feel sad?
Pash stays quiet.

On a nearby line 
children’s clothes sway 
in the afternoon sun.