I arrive in my country after crossing a river astrologers immerse themselves in with their rusty instruments searching for the stars or I don’t arrive in my country after crossing a river no one sinks in there are journeys I return from thin as a needle’s shadow I meet the morning face-to-face as if I’d left a tunnel behind a moment ago steam rises under my hand from a lovely coffee cup cracked like the wall of an orphanage I meet a farmer who lost his mind in the famines begging in the big city evenings