Zyphera

My eastern days…

Are the coal on the veils of anonymous women, and the copper on the 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 old and a carpenter

Are the blue, yellow, and red arabesques on greedy 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 felt when you are never alone

Are the invisible chains that others’ gaze betray

Are the softness of a sunset reflecting the depth of the landscape

Are forests of towers standing as evidence of past triumphs

Are the hanging roads slaloming between the tops of mosques

Are the white shisha smoke filtered by male mustaches

Are the touch of your warm skin at night.