In solitude I sit


Slowly, silently, slithering through the city’s
shadows, sword drawn so high,
that I could see,
it shine
under the silent skies.

In solitude I sit,
waiting for some respite
from the fears that follow
my mind. In solitude I sit,
waiting for some sweetness of
her grace. In solitude I sit,
anticipating the dawn of
the rising moon.

So, then, should I run
and maintain my silence
when I see the gun,
blood and violence?

Slowly, silently, slithering through the city’s
shadows, someone calls,
piercing through the darkness, names
so scary, that I could hear
myself shiver
under the soundless skies.

In solitude I sit,
waiting for some respite
from the fears that follow
my mind. In solitude I sit,
waiting for some sweetness of
her grace. In solitude I sit,
waiting for the clouds (so
dark) to disperse.

So then, should I sit
and quietly whisper,
supplicate a bit,
make my mettle crisper?

Slowly, silently, and surely it returned,
shattering through the city’s narrow
domestic walls. Swords sheathed
and guns holstered. And I whisper
to the ground, all fours.

In solitude I sit,
and bit by bit,
as I bite my lips,
my hopes eclipse
the darkness there is.
The great Seer
won’t let this disappear.
The great Hearer will not tune down
the noise from the town.
Tears flow down my cheeks now
and what was once an aue
is now a source of strength
slowly but surely, at arm’s length.

The wait…


As the mist came
With the dawn of the rising moon;
And the dull grey spread
O’er trees, bazaars and runes,
On an empty street, silent and


The old man walked the streets-
A wooden leg.
With a letter clutched
Firmly betwixt his fingers;
His heart as light as a


His pocket watch
Rolls along, with the arrow
Of time. And in the corner he sees two
Bright lights. A sense of fear comes
O’er him. Then he hears a dog


He walks along, frowning at
The cur. The letter now,
Soaked in sweat.
He wishes to see his beloved.
Reaching the end of his walk;
He looks up at the sign on the


The clock tower
Rolls along, with the arrow
Of time. And in his dreariness, he
Walks to his wife. There she lay,
Pale and alone. Empty.
He lies then beside her,
And waits…

On unwanted relationships



Black and tiny, it decided to
Separate from its tribe and hide
In the company of whites.
While the rest of its pack went about
With their businesses, fulfilling their
Purpose, it remained stuck in its place.
A place where none could reach:

Damp, dank and stinky.

Causing a mild discomfort to the
Owner of the place, for the owner
lost his empty space.
With strong muscles he tried,
But black and tiny, would not budge.

So much so, that when his muscles got tired,
The owner decided to give his muscles a rest.
But he never gave up.
The more he tried, the more black and tiny
Lodged itself into the owner’s property.
The owner was reluctant,
And would never give up.

And black and tiny, was adamant.
He would not leave.

Until finally, the owner, having no other option
Decided to use a weapon- a sharp needle
Which could go into the annuls of his
Teeth and get rid of the black and tiny seed.

With the seed dislodged
From between the teeth,
relief came over the


 His tongue, now lonely,
Still searches for the seed.

Fears that follow

I am blind to the perfume
of that which comes from the footsteps
of the past. I am deaf to the visions
that the future wishes that I peep
into. I am mute to the cries of
agony in the present.

And then there is no trace…

No trace that the Weavers Three had ever
woven a fabric so exquisite, colours
so rich and patterns so sweet…

It was all a waste, for the worms
have now begun to attack the memories.

Silence entrenches in the roots
and brightens the eye. The Two that walk
up to me with the elegance of a cat…
only better, with the majesty of a lion
and with the aura of a tiger.

And one of them looks at me kindly while
the other is shooting daggers.

The scary one claims my limbs.
His friend chooses my heart.

The Judge chose Mercy over Justice.

Don’t date an Arab Girl



Originally posted on THAQAFA MAGAZINE:


Don’t date an Arab girl

She is harder to convince and more complex to understand

than the ones on the big screen that have convinced you of her delicate and timid nature

She is not oppressed, like those caricatures on the news

Her long, flowing hair has not grown dark and strong to guide your eyes to

Her curved figure, which exists not to twirl into shapes

so that she many enchant you to the beat of the Debke. The Arab girl is born

with a fire in her belly and has inherited the strength of her foremothers.

Don’t date an Arab girl for she carries the Middle East on her shoulders

Every war and every invasion pushes her to tears she fights back to replace

with a brave face for her brothers and sisters; starving, homeless and grieving.

Don’t date an Arab girl, she inspires revolutions with her passion…

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