They all exploded like tiny fires
Upon the  Chinese mosquito bat
With odd clicking sounds in air.

This one was egg-head in  hair,
Sleeping in bamboo- curtained
Space that had tiny sun chinks,

And a sun rose and set in them
Till sun finally exploded on bat
On  small mosquito fire’s back.

We have no graves for flowers.
When they die, they burn in air.
No idea where to place flowers.

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