"How can you miss what you've never had?"
I ask myself
as the shadow of the plane rushes like a black arrow away from my home
and its silhouette gets smaller
I bend down and pick up the book
It's in front of my feet
where the wind plays with the pages
A worn paperback with a boring grey cover
Henry Miller - Tropic of Cancer
I know the title
but I will never understand the language
I find the rainbow in my pocket
and hide the book where I will be able to find it again
Right between blue and green
The whine of the plane has turned in to a soft whistle by now
and the machine can only be seen when the sun's reflected in the metal
Left here, I stand
alone on the air strip
The sky darkens and the earth turns violet
as flames shoot up my legs
