Damascus, Syria 2005
The eternal city is an old woman
with wrinkles around the edges,
covers the cracks with new cement structures,
imposing in height and bleak in color.
Blackened beggars roam the streets
with dirty hands and faces
forever hidden in shadowy spaces.
Under a layer of shine
the signs of decay remain.
Straight Street
curves and convulses
with the live bodies
of frantic street sellers.
The air is thick and wet to breathe:
an expensive perfume.
Fragrant cloud of spices
mix with the musk of sweat,
cloying and foreign.
The almost set sun
illuminates the iridescent
tiles of the Mosque,
streaking the smog choked sky with
brilliant colors of violet, pink and gold.
The beating heart
cries the Islamic prayer by night fall.
Bismillah! around dining tables
before feasting on roast lamb,
slaughtered on the front porch.
But far past the night painted city
lie the the ruby-bright villas,
with acres upon acres of
citrus and green melons
as large and round as human heads,
bursting from the desert dirt.
Simply a jeweled choker,
tight
around the old woman’s throat.
