How do we say this? It’s like
A campfire for a nomad,
Not among other nomads
But alone, Cain with his mark,
Tamou in Berber bracelets
Fleeing the Spanish and French,
Rifle behind her saddle
And green tattoo on her chin.
You make it, and you break camp
Next morning, and you’re gone.
It’s not something that you find.
It’s something you have to make,
Your fleeting meaning, fleeting
Hearth you assemble and feed,
Just enough to serve your needs.
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