The first cigarette of the pack
I started turning upside down
With the promise of a wish
That by the pack’s end
I hoped would come true

Wishes burned like cigarettes
One after another hastily
Days passed… weeks, months…
Packs replaced one another
The ritual lost its meaning

Now I no longer turn the cigarette
Neither the first nor the last
Yet wishes live on 
Hope, like a premature infant
Died in my hands…

Jona Cenameri