Clouds of smoke drift through my room,
Curling in the air;
They swirl in twirling plumes of fume
Like strands of silver hair.
Rings of smoke whirl from my lips
And sail the wind I blow;
They float away like bobbing ships
And take my thoughts in tow.
Smoke is like a friend who knows
My every silent dream;
Like passing clouds it comes and goes
In slowly winding streams.
Daniel Reid, Dali, Yunnan, China 2017
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