She split the nut in her left hand. The breakfast was ready from her red palm... Golden bangles tingled as she washed clothes and bathed at three in the evening. A tap in the kitchen broke She wept and wept to put the flame to fumes. In a room where nothing, but fogy silence stayed. She splits the nut breakfast was ready from her white palm No tea or water the taps hoaler in bursts I burn my finger in the hot pancake She dials for the plumber The line is dead her left hand persists epilogue : for you I give half my dreams and half my mothers' unknown tears and a drop of my hopes and a thumb that smears my thoughts all over the face of despair.