I know it all too well, these letters
They were written in red, I had let them dry
Under the summer sun, but I never posted these
The red is from the earth, worry not, it's not blood
Not mine, not an animal, neither is it a dye
It was sieved from powdered Um Ishrin sandstone
And in your absence I mixed it with my tears
You could deem it senseless as a choice, it surely may have been
I had carried sandstone from a land last week
I had packed thirty kilos, now I am left with two
Each poetry costs ten grams, I will leave the count to you
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