I have burned the other pages, as decreed.
I have scrubbed the red away, so none may bleed.
Here is the morning, washed in golden hue,
Exactly as the Victim asked me to.
The air was heavy with the scent of dough,
The yeast was rising, stubborn, soft, and slow.
I sat upon the stoop, the stone was warm,
A perfect stillness, devoid of any storm.
The jebena poured, a long and thin dark stream,
The ginger snapping in the rising steam.
I watched the sugar dissolve within the glass,
And watched a beetle navigate the grass.
The Neem tree was a universe of green,
Filtering the light to a lace-like screen.
It cast a net of shadows on my knee,
A shifting pattern, intricate and free.
And there it was—the flower in the crack,
With yellow petals peeling softly back.
A dandelion, common and distinct,
A drop of sun the heavy concrete drank.
My son ran past, a dusty, shouting blur,
Chasing a cat with matted, graying fur.
He laughed a sound that bubbled from his chest,
A sound of pure, unbridled, simple rest.
My wife called out, "The shirt is on the line!"
"I'll need it pressed!" I yelled back, "Make it shine!"
I thought about the work I had at noon,
And hummed a fragment of a wedding tune.
I worried for a moment—just a slight, small sting—
That I had lost my mother's silver ring.
But then I found it deep inside my vest,
And felt a wave of calm, and simple rest.
The radio played a song about the Nile,
And for a second, I could only smile.
The coffee tasted sweet.
The sky was high.
A perfect blue.
An uncorrupted sky.
I took a sip.
I watched the yellow bloom.
There was no tank.
There was no sudden doom.
Just light.
Just life.
Just breath inside a lung.
The song was sweet.
And it was being sung.
[CASE CLOSED]