The stranger who visited my town yesterday
Brought me with a glint of fire in his eyes
A fistful of crushed mulberries.
Or mulberries that were crushed because he closed his fist too tight.
Either ways, it doesn’t matter.

And the crushed mulberries
With their juice tainting his worker-hands
And mixing with the sweat on his nervous palms
Smelt rather sweet.
Or something that sounded sweet at least.
Either ways, it doesn’t matter.

The crushed mulberries reminded me
Of lone roads burning
And dark nights in flames.
Or lone roads burning in the flames of the night.
Either ways, it doesn’t matter.

The taste of the crushed mulberries
That I threw from his hands onto the mud in the verandah
Felt a lot like your name against mine,
Your voice in return to a smile,
Like a dream half written in guilt
And rains that sang.
Or things I thought I would tell you
Like the cliché phrase – I loved you.
Either ways, it doesn’t matter.