Zyphera

My eastern days…

Are the coal on veil of anonymous women and copper on manes of women with red claws

Are the throbbing and hypnotic call of the muezzins,

Are the beige and oppressive dust covering the city

Are the scar on Mahmoud’s lip, seven years and carpenter

Are the blue, yellow and red arabesques on gourmet trucks carrying stones

Are the smell of old cigarettes on the seats of taxis,

Are the indecent gaze of men on women’s modesty,

Are the loneliness when you are never alone

Are the invisible chains that others’ looks betray

Are the softness of sunset reflecting the depth of the landscape

Are forests of towers as evidence of past triumphs,

Are the hanging roads slaloming between the tops of mosques

Are the white smoke shisha filtered by male mustaches

Are the touch of your warm skin at night.