By: Fareed Ghanem
Here I am, just a handful of water taken from the last raining season. Since the last Bedouin had poured me into his pot, which had been dyed by sand and smoke, and laid over two black stoned and a nomadic hill, I am still standing on winds.
My eyes are tearing with ashes, so to quench the embers of the road; my eyebrows are fronds of a wandering palm-tree, waving to convoys; and my skin made of volcanoes dust.
Here I am, hissing with no throat, corrugating into the core of things, imitating the sorrows of desert singers, spreading my dark colors on roofs, rebelling inside my golden cage, overflowing over my house walls, then sleeping inside a cup made of old clay and waiting for those who search, every morning, for some awakening during the remnants of their day, so I might be sup by two drowsed lips.