“قمرة يا قمرة لا تطلعي ع الشجرة”
“O moon, o moon, don’t climb up the tree”
My mother would sing to me
But curiosity bested me
So instead I dug
And rich was the soil that nourished my roots
Beneath the rubble-encrusted earth
Even the Jasmine trees are tired, mother
Each flower stained with dignity lost, and yet
to be found
Their roots shrivelled, still holding onto hope
In this kidnapped revolution
I am sewn between the artificial borders of memory and map
Oh the lies they told
Betrayal is the coldest enemy
Of my land
Is it my land?
For I am afraid she has forgotten me before our meeting
Patience will not unoccupy my soul of its yearning
My identity occludes me, waging a forever war
Am I a fool? To think that one day I may return.
How naïve, to pray for a life my ancestors left behind
Perhaps the torture of foolishness is more forgiving
than the unbecoming of hopelessness
A bullet in my heart.
Violently still, but I would not dare wish it away
Call me crazy
For this pain is but a necessary visitor
Whispering reminders of our post-colonial circumstances
This exile – no accident but architecture
A passport cannot name my truth(s)
I climbed the tree, mother;
And I can’t get down
Forever suspended between Earth and Exile – am I
