At first only the stairs fell. Then, brick by brick the building crumbled to the ground. I watched it all happen. Slowly, as if the building was carefully laying itself to rest.
Now I am on the roof. I make poems out of skyscrapers, while they come tumbling down.
There were people inside.
I went off in search of my lamp. The one with the red rose on its base. The one from my grandmother. I found it at his house. Only one of the gold petals was missing. This upset me, but I was also happy to have retrieved my light fixture.
Marga Pictures 