The smoke that runs through the poems of this collection evokes elevation, as well as the prosaic activities of men.

The smoke is black, like the moon, or gray, like the fog that disturbs contemplation. Even the zenith sees "the midday mist" rise, and light is only mentioned in association with darkness: a storm lamp in the night or this sun, called in an almost performative manner, at the end of a poem dominated by a black moon.

Leli Bey offers us a journey into a "smoky metropolis," blending present and past and opening up to future interstices where hope would dissipate all smoke.