The smoke screen is a fiery crystal ball,
many forms take shape, many shapes take form;
An aqueous Chinar drips fire-leaves -
A warhorse, smoke etched, mutates into a mule -
The grey spines of long lost countries
appear and disappear like serpentine ouroboros.
All this can vanish with a sooty sigh,
but then, the gyres emerge
like long tresses and almighty arms
smothering, suffocating, stifling.
A room under the smoky talons
is a dungeon spiralling forever.
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