Our man’s evaporated — gone.
After the party rises dawn
A quiet, calmer house he leaves
Infused with that which he believes.
Now off to scrub ancestral mire
From the grounds of Imane’s spire
For shines a hope in progeny
That’s barely grazed by coloc-amis.

As he ascends to the fourth floor
We’re sewing stitches evermore
His scalpel sketched the lessons learned
Into our cheeks the stories burn
Red-raw from cold or rush of blood
At Sami’s wisdom understood.