A fan in a slow movement of back and forth, back and forth
it’s the way the boy moves his hand, a lazy and slow movement
barely noticeable, barely cooling his face down, barely feeling
the once-cold water in his cheap plastic pool, his precious ice cubes melted
the coffee in his glass is long gone, his will to move is long gone,
but the heat is not gone, even though he wished to,
even cicadas are silenced by the almighty sun,
the cement is not friendly to their singing
neither are the reflections of the light from the windows of the passing cars,
nor the radiating heat from the asphalt
The fan is still moving, but the boy’s eyes are closed now, even under the shadow of
his balcony’s tent, a tent with painted flowers that match the ones in the pot,
once with lively colours, now faded and stripped of their previous glory
their thriving days were now passed
as brave passers-by were walking fast, their breaths uneven, their foreheads sweaty
silently cursing and pleading for the moon to make its appearance
Lady Selene’s pale light feeling nourishing to the burnt skin
The boy goes out again at night; this time, the fan is inside, and the pool is empty
