So I smoke in the country where compassion disappears, as the moisture from the thin paper, through which smoke goes through.
In the country where all the good and bad burns away without the flame, quickly swallowed.
And where the best people are shaken off like the ashes.
The country where the streets are dirty and nasty, like an ashtray after a sleepless night.
Hopes are rising, swirling like a bluish smoke, which, through an open window
jumps out and disappears.
A cemeteries are like cigarette butts, thrown at the tram station and kicked in a corner.