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Morning Prayer
Hiba Heba


I am a whiff of air lingering 
            through empty morning streets.
To every corner of a rusty cart,
            to every chair sitting desolate in 
the puddle of electric wires:
            I bequeath a future trajectory
of how my life is going to be
            once I am reincarnated as the wind.
The silage of tandoor, fruit shop,
            fruit flies, the masjid tessellations
will remember me as a vagrant
            collecting gems out of tedium.
I have embarked upon the dull task
            of forgetting. I am glad I was born
here, in this meagre town where dark
            cables shroud the beauty of pine canopies
and beetles invade dead dogs on skewed
            pavements. I am grateful that I will tuck
this morning away. How much more is
            there to forget?  Each unnamed body ache
is a longing, a jam jar expiring silently.
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