The torrid sun that lends its warmest rays to the desert and leaves trickles for foreign lands.
What laborers and peddlers and drivers and jobless men,
What cleaners and ragpickers and dumpster divers and thieves,
What owners and employers and businessmen and salesmen,
What lenders and creditors, philanthropists and crooks,
What old men and young, what cleric and his son, and
I,
The mosque gives leave to the people and the people see
A portly man with a thin moustache, holding bright orange babies of the earth in his cardboard cradle,
and handing them to the sons of Heaven.

Some say there is nourishment in the tangerine,
Others are nourished by bathing in the light that births orange from green,
and pulls green from brown.
All I did was look at his comely, unsullied face.