Since childhood, Jabir smoked—
penniless, he scavenged streets for stubs,
picking treasures from the gutter’s haze.
In his world, the meat factory director reigned supreme,
best of men, for puffing halfway, then tossing
half-smokes like careless kings.
The literature teacher? Pure hate—
cigarette scorched his mustache, rotted his teeth
to blackened ruin.
Jabir schemed wisely: glass jars brimmed
with winter’s hoard, saving butts from snow’s cruel soak,
unusable flakes on frozen ground.
Now I see poor families’ budgets swell
like Jabir’s jars, crammed with scraps;
the state coffers mirror the mess.
But officials feast on stolen wealth—
their bloody teeth gleam whiter still.
Not one like that director, tossing half
to the starving throng.
Saw Jabir yesterday: mustache yellowed
by nicotine’s long kiss, teeth decayed
like his life, crumbling slow.
He rasped: “This country i—”
