in prayer. I have seen the men clean off the dust
on the streets more times than I was able to count
the steps taken toward a statute, a noise, a floating illness
that's in the air. I have lived this city without asking
an ant's tale, without realizing that the people who have
passed the gates are remembered for all the sins
they have made, not for what history wrote of them
mighty men, conquerors, hoarders of treasures
hand-crafted scarves and maidens now seen
dancing with slashed silk dangling on their bellies
once too pregnant by stories. I have seen three candles lit
as the call of prayer rises, as if from spices piled
with efforts of manufacturing a round olive into
a memorabilia, hold on to this city, Jerusalem
oh, holy, never let go of the fact that it will not
know you, will not lend itself to your kindness.
This is the difference between living and inhabiting
grander cities, I see what you cannot feel
it is this plain, these streets, these old tiles.
On the corner of the mosques I see him
nestled in a bunch of rags, a beggar I know
by the rancid taste of Da'wa, well-wish for my day
before I pass him I come to think that my city
stops my breath slowly,
In this city I do not
know of my neighbor's name any more than the beggar
on the corner knows mine when I pass by.
No comments:
Post a Comment