A glimpse

In bed trying to fall asleep,
the air shakes and the paint from the ceiling
chips off over my exposed stomach.
turning from side to side,
covers up, covers down,
a foot sticking out for some cold air,
then shaking like a baby
by a tired mother's hand.

counting numbers,
reciting religious verses,
imagining scenarios,
singing music,
recollecting memories.

Then, an image flashes before me,
an empty bottle of gasoline
and a burning match in my hand,
I turn ablaze, and through the fires
I see my eyes looking back at me,
I see the truth.

It's the devil, I think, and then recite more verses.
but he does not plant such seeds,
only waters the vines of sorrow.
was it the burning woman in the train,
or the palestinian man in the camp,
which one was the culprit?

I have no rage,
no sorrow,
I only wish to thank them.