Poem by Thal Mohammed
It is a city of imported beauty,
galloped by a soulless existence.
Inside an air-conditioned taxicab,
I conveniently avoid the anger
of the humid air outside.
Slender edifices made of glass and steel
block the memories of a city that I once knew.
Posters impregnate the walls with
a lifestyle unspoken by the
language of this land.
Boxed villas weave the salty Gulf shoreline
that once carried the fishermen’s songs.
Perhaps something is dying, perhaps not.
Nonetheless, I am fascinated by –
the death of the falcon and
the emptiness of the finjan.
I am fascinated by –
the smile on my friend’s face as
we converse over our croissants
inside a French café.
Lest we forget, the azaan, digitally timed,
blare through empty minarets while
the muezzin patiently waits to pray.
Perhaps tonight I will sleep.
Perhaps I will see the children running
with a soccer ball under their arms,
spitting marbles from their hands.
*Azaan: is the Islamic call to prayer.
*Muezzin: is the man who calls people to the Muslim prayer from the minaret.