And there I stand smoke-soaked, surplus

And there I stand smoke-soaked, surplus on the shoulder of memory before the Almighty. Without a hint of smoke, having dissolved into myself, I take from my pocket ripe cherries in a fistful. I smile, chew in the dark, quietly wait for a new day, that will grant hope to me under the sun and sky, tearing off its clothes as a snowy whirlwind to walk across the Earth.