atrasties

Perched in the corner of a crowded little arabic cafe, gazing through the hovering fumes from the hookah pipes at the lads upon the impromptu stage. I glance about and look at the smiles and closed eyes as people try to see the words; I wonder why they need to sequester the mind behind the curtain to see things clearly. I can see the words floating out over the crowd and landing softly, sometimes at the shoulder like the first flake of a new snow. I feel them pass by or even through and shiver in aticipation of the next one.The smoke is blue and sweet, with the flavour of fruits from distant shores winding it's way into my lungs, no heavy pangs like cigarettes, a bite of apple, crisp and delicate, such is the waft of the hookah. People share space shoulder to shoulder and politely smile and flirt across the room, secrets and smirks partially concealed behind the dip of a wine glass, such a lovely dance. The music soft in the background has warm breezes worked into the melodies and the lap of waves on the shore in the drums, tranquil; and the voices of writers passing out images like dealers high on their own product with an infinate supply, gratis. The coffee in my hand is thicker and sweeter than the smoke in the air and both find their way within in such easy fashion, and yet linger so delicately that I am never without either. Conversations begin with the shaking of hands and congratulations to the three, who wove so deftly the nights muses into strands of time. I make my way over and share a glass with my companions, artists, brothers and wonder how they shape so well the words I see and if the words so shaped, also see me.