Maya (Excuse Me Nizar Qabani) Poem by Mohammad Yousef

In the quiet sanctuary of morning light,
Maya stands behind the transparent misty curtain,
a soft veil between the world and her intimate ritual.
The air is thick with steam,
each droplet dancing like whispers of secrets,
as I watch, a silent observer,
the poetry of her presence unfolding.

Her silhouette, a gentle curve,
framed by the soft glow that filters through,
the chaos of the day held at bay,
as she moves with grace,
a ballet of the mundane,
shampoo gliding through her hair,
a cascade of lather like clouds in a storm.

The curtain billows, a breath of intimacy,
as though it knows the fragility of this moment,
each rise and fall of her laughter,
the echo of water splashing against porcelain,
and I am caught, entranced,
by the rhythm of her solitude.

The scent of lavender mingles with the steam,
a calming balm in this cocoon,
where worries dissipate like mist,
and time stretches,
each second a heartbeat,
each heartbeat a reminder
that beauty often hides in the everyday.

Her fingers, delicate and purposeful,
trace the contours of her skin,
an artist painting a canvas of self-love,
and I am reminded of the layers we wear,
the stories etched upon our bodies,
each scar, each mark, a testament
to battles fought and the grace of survival.

Outside, the world rushes by,
but here, in this sanctuary,
there is only the sound of water,
a symphony of serenity,
where the mundane transforms
into something sacred,
and I am a witness,
a guardian of this fleeting moment.

Maya, in her cocoon of steam and solitude,
is a reminder that within the chaos,
there exists an oasis,
a space to breathe, to reflect,
to reclaim the essence of oneself,
and I, behind the curtain,
hold this memory close,
etched in the heart,
a poem unwritten,
but felt in the depths of silence.

In the sanctuary of steam,
Maya dances behind the transparent misty curtain,
a wisp of silhouette,
her form blurred,
like memories half-formed,
softened by the exhalation of warmth.

The bathroom, a cocoon,
swallowed in vapor,
where the world fades,
and the hum of life quiets,
leaving only the rhythm of water,
a gentle lullaby,
and the whisper of her presence,
enigmatic, ethereal.

I watch, a silent observer,
the curtain a veil,
a boundary of intimacy,
a canvas painted with droplets,
where light bends and shimmers,
like the fleeting seconds between heartbeats.

Her hands, graceful,
work magic with the soap,
bubbles rising,
tiny orbs of unfulfilled wishes,
each one a promise of laughter,
or a secret shared,
dancing in the air,
before bursting into nothingness.

The scents swirl,
lavender and citrus,
a delicate embrace,
that wraps around the senses,
pulling me closer,
drawing me into her world,
where time loses its meaning,
and the mundane transforms,
into a ritual of renewal.

Maya tilts her head,
a cascade of hair,
dark as midnight,
glimmers under the feeble light,
each strand a constellation,
each drop of water,
a universe in itself,
reflecting the beauty of the ordinary,
the poetry of being.

And in this moment,
the world outside holds its breath,
the noise of the day muffled,
as the steam rises,
and the curtain billows softly,
like a heartbeat,
a pulse of life,
a reminder that beauty lives,
in the simplest of acts,
in the soft laughter of water,
in the sacred space,
where we shed our masks,
and allow ourselves to be.

I am here,
a witness to the ordinary,
to the grace of her existence,
captured in the steam,
in the misty embrace,
of a bathroom sanctuary,
where Maya finds solace,
and I, a poet,
find my muse in the delicate,
the intimate,
the shimmering veil of life.