Two uncloaked heads
In a sea of a thousand and one hijabs
in the market that Tuesday
stepping through piles of coriander
laid down upon sacs over dust
indicative of luscious gardens and hydroponics
out of place on the edge of the desert
indigo cloaks of prayer with
indigo framed faces staring out
at our nudity as we walked past
custom, ignoring common tradition
to move onto lunch in Africa
without chaperone or coverings
stepping into the past brings with it
clichéd senses of awe of wonder
grasping at threads of intellectual
expectation but it’s not real
Not like the tired donkey in the corner
the truck rusted and broken
next to the picnic places
with their seeds and mini trees of green
next to colours and dried flowers
opposite chickens in their final hours
as the blood flowed
I looked to the dropping
Of little life into the dust beside the wooden crates
Watched the shuffles of indigo ghosts
Walking past piles of powdery blue
Carrying groceries to the quiet of indigo cornered rooms
Out of sight from the temples and tombs
Of Luxor
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem