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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. |