I carry my history around,
heavier and heavier,
like a washerwoman's bundle around my shoulders,
Garments.
Some beautiful, to be sure.
Others dirty and barely wearable.
One day my load shall become too heavy
and I shall sit down and die.
I thought I would die yesterday,
when the crazy big steel bird I was riding in
came in for a bad landing and then
SWOOPED up again,
even when we touched down (finally)
it was uneven;
Praying that I would be given time
to repent of the things I've done
(the things I've done with you).
And now I sit on the rooftop
smelling the faint shades of cardamom,
watching the birds and the minarets,
and the mountains which are
carelessly sculpted by erosion.
I search for release,
Which I find only in your arms.
(Sana'a, 2008)
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