Have I found my self in a child’s breath,
Lost amongst the olives branches and figs,
Or in the language of blossoms themselves
Mourning in her basket at dawn?
“Take me back, take me back” I call to her,
“I still do not know from where I came.”
The illusion of our choice is called away
In the broken road to the market;
Cobbled musings, dreams of an old mans coffee,
Sown by the roadside seamstresses of our past.
“Who are they, do they not see you?”
Her basket sways innocently forgotten.
And in the shouts of Ramallah’s market,
The mourning of the day is cultivated.
I am left to a stranger by her hands,
An in those hands I remember being taken away.