The small red embers of the incense burned
like an incandescent flame of rage;
All the rage, however many embers:
decorated rooms that weren’t mine,
with their scented candles, and their damn
bouqets in vases or in pickle jars…
The small red embers of the incense choked
my throat with smoke and burned my heart.
The candles and the flowers (that weren’t mine)
would twist my mouth in a contemptous sneer;
sweet scents and perfumes made me gasp and cough,
and made my eyes weep irritated tears.
And now in my own decorated room,
a stick of incense burns with sweet perfume.