When the garden caught fire
and the dark air of the windows and doors
of the hostel opposite just preferred to watch
the birds flying above took off
to tell the tree-lined streets
that they were done with life
that it did not matter anymore
where they stayed, whose nests
they lived in. Because they sang to one another
that all umbrellas on rainy days got
wet and urchins just went about
minding their own business.