Stalker. Abductor. Lover 5 (sequence)

Three days before fate butted in once again…

This is wrong. this is so very wrong 

 Juts like every time every week, it was close to mid night. The full moon lit sky glittered with millions of stars without a cloud to conceal their brilliance. The streets have long since gone silent and not a soul walked the pavements, except for the cats and dogs, but they did not count. And there he was again, kneeling at her window–her door was armored with locks along with most of the windows–, picking the lock, and wondering just how many times he had said that very same thing, and sometimes with a few nasty words thrown in, in vain.

 He knew that by doing this he was crossing all the lines, that he was acting like a psychologically messed-up stalker, which was something he was not. well, he was a stalker all right. just not a mentally ill one. There was a world of difference, even though from another perceptive the two didn’t really lack the ties.
Granted, he dedicated more hours to watch her from where she couldn’t see than he can count. Yes, he was here, because he wanted to know every last detail of her life. Yes, everything she did fascinated him so much that he snapped a picture– how she held her coffee mug, for example, was not by holding it from the handle, but by grasping the china body itself even though he was sure the liquid was boiling in a pot just two seconds ago.Yes, her photos filled the walls of an entire room in his house, and that he hated his assignments now since they were the only thing that kept him from watching her 24/7.
Yes, he took extra care to watch the ends of her every day, her pre-sleep  routine, loving the way she stretched her arms high above her head, clasping the fingers of her hands and yawning as she slid a hand back down her arm to cover her mouth, her hips swaying slowly as if knowing he was watching
And yes, of course he knew it was crazy to take such a risk and ridicule all the ways he could easily get caught, but how could he not keep coming back when she, with everything she did and everything she was, represented a brand new dimension of life he never thought would appeal to him? when to him she was life incarnate?
And watching her through spy glasses were too brief to satisfy any part of his curiosity.
He was not mentally ill. He was irrevocably in love.
And that propelled him from his house, often from his own bed, to hers. Because he missed her, ached for the sight of her, ached to hear the quiet even breaths and the occasional sleepy murmurs. They were the only things he could have for he didn’t deserve her, he knew, but he couldn’t stay away. It was like the unseen cosmic forces had tied them together and he could only stretch too far before finding himself back to where he was, where he belonged. And maybe this attraction was morbid, judging from his actions, but he would die before hurting her. If she found someone else, if she no longer had a room for him in her life, he would simply remove himself to a spot in the world that would make reaching her pure impossibility. But she was free now, and if his observation were any proof, she intended to be for a long time.
He lived on the hope that she would free for him forever, that maybe…
well, maybe.
Within five minutes, Nicolas got the all too familiar go-ahead click . He took the lock picks out, put them back in his pocket and stood up. He touched the bottom of the window and tugged up lightly, still testing its vulnerability. He sighed a thank you when it moved according to his liking without restraint. He eased it open slowly, praying that it wouldn’t creak and announce his entry. When it didn’t and his estimation told him the opening was wide enough to accommodate him he planted a leg inside then he swung the rest of him inside. He left the window disclosed, a meager space between the glass and the sill–just in case– and made his way to her bedroom with a stealthily gait, and socked silent feet on the bits of the wooden floor the were not carpeted.

It was all the way it always had been when he came here every week. Her door was slightly ajar, a hue of weak light came from within the room, because she left a sorry excuse for a lamp on in a corner for some reason unknown. The two windows had been left open with the curtains drawn over them, ruffled by the night air, casting dancing shadows on the floor and walls.
And like every time, he took a deep gulp of air and felt it clench in his lungs. Her sightings always swelled his chest with a tender thrill. So slowly, his finger tips on the handle, he pushed the door open, certain about how far he must go before the squeak came so loud in the quietness of the darkened home.He squeezed between the door and the frame, careful not to let any part of him touch the wood and released the breath he had been holding.
He remained where he was, pressed against the wall, his dark clothes lending him the prefect disguise. A slight tremble in his hands. A bead of sweat slithering along his temple.
Just like every other time.
The room was the second biggest in the house after the kitchen (the woman did all but piss in the kitchen). The other room which he guess was meant to be for an over-night guest was small and had a treadmill that belittled the meager furniture of the room and never really made one comfortable enough to sleep with its silver and black metal body towering over the low bed.
Her own bedroom however was a world of its own, private and with starkly different characteristics. When the kitchen was designed with the practical, critical eyes of an expert, each item in this room was chosen according to the intimate thoughts of  Natalie’s heart, so much that one felt as though one had stepped into a sacred ground. Nevertheless made one feel relaxed once the feeling wore off.
A desk with a neat surface and laptop was positioned at one wall, a chest of drawers with a mirror, perfumes and candles were against another wall with a ticking white clock above it. At a corner an exercise ball glistened on top of a rubber mat.
The single bed was pushed under the big window with mattresses (Nicolas knew by just looking at it) that were so unbelievably comfortable they sucked the fatigue immediately out of the body. That was so like Natalie, when it came to certain things she would not take less than perfect. The headboards were devoid of intricate designs. He saw a circular patch where the wood had peeled off somewhat from placing hot mugs on it without a coaster every night as she read on the sensual light of the lamp that rose elegantly behind the bed.
It was amazing how she could tolerate such a thing in her house when she skinned alive (figuratively speaking) whoever lazed down in her cafes. But of course here she didn’t need to maintain a superb reputation.
Like him, their homes were their personal Spas, their havens.
He saw everything in the house as he sneaked his way to her room and knew the details of that one too. However they were all in the margin. He had eyes only for her.

He took the same five steps toward her, blindly knowing where the boards would make unwanted sounds, and stopped a three-step distance away from her.
The pale blue sheet was pulled up to her waist, her bare arms hugged the pillow the way had dreamed to be held by her. Not a choke hold, just enough pressure to make him only aware of her embrace. Her hair was undone, dunes of golden brown touched by the silver light of the moon, thrown over the pillow behind her and swept over her face, hiding most of the face he loved from view, but he knew she looked serene.
He brought the huge dark blue cushion from the corner, well-stuffed with rice and comfortable to incline against–not so much to sleep on– plumbed it and brought it even closer to her bed. He put his forearms on his knees, intertwined his fingers and took the position of Watching Natalie Sleep, sitting at an angle where his face would not be totally exposed by the moonlight.
He looked at her, at the parts visible to him– her arms, her lips with creases at the corners hinting at a fight against a smile all the time, her eyelashes fanning shadows over her cheekbones.
And her hair.
Ah how he loved that hair.
He had been caught off guard by thoughts of that hair… slipping his fingers into it, filling his hands with its thickness, twist it as he kissed her and showed her all that he was unable to say till it got tangible beyond help. He wanted to bury his face in it and inhale the richness of scent he knew was its.
But all he could do now was to reach out a gentle hand and smooth it back away from her face. He could love that hair all he wanted, but he damn well didn’t come all the way across the city to stare at hair.
 Taking his hand away again, he brushed a slow finger down her cheek, rosy and warm to the touch. He smiled when he saw a twitch of a smile at the corners of her mouth.
 There that is so much better. Now he could resume his position for the rest of the hour and enjoy.
There were times when he wished he could stand as close as he was now to her and just drink from the endless mystery in her eyes, but every time he gazed upon her like this now, he was seized by the feeling that she was too beautiful to wake up.

 All was going  the way it usually went. She only moved once so that she was half on her back, half on her side, her arm draped over her hip. Every move made him hold his breath, fearing and wanting her to wake up. And he didn’t touch her again. He remained still and she remained asleep.
All was well as his night watch was drawing to an end… except that her eyelids fluttered and her lashes lifted.
Then suddenly the light from the ridiculous lamp went out.

Nicolas gulped…


Stalker. Abductor. Lover 5

That was her name. Beautiful, mysterious, untouchable.
He tried not to think of her. He tried to keep a train of thought that was at a safe distance from her. But it seemed hard. Impossible. Where he was grateful of having so much on his hands, receiving assignments, packing information, setting the scene, and exacting the mission, they were things he now went through them mindlessly, almost without any notable effort. They were always things that occupied the hands, but left the mind free to wonder. And it was bound to wonder about her, send its tendrils away and imagine where she was, what she was doing.
God knew he tried to quell it as soon it started, because it was not right. He was  not exactly a man trained to lead a normal life along side his career, but there was always this sound in his head that told him that there was nothing normal about this any way. That as long as he kept his distance and didn’t contact her, all was good. He could have digested that just fine if only she was not there every where he looked, around every corner he took. If only he didn’t go up the mountain road every morning with his irrational hope to see her again. Just another chance, another sneak peek at the forever in her eyes.
There was no safe distance when it came to her. No escape.
Once he gave in to the temptation to be around her he could not get enough. He grew hungry  to see her, every night bringing a new wave of longing to see her face, a single naughty curl of hair inflamed by a sun ray, the dusting of freckles across her face that was so cute when she smiled it nearly broke his heart.
Until the day he realized he was lying to himself in the long time he pretended to have ran into her by sheer accident, or checked the three branches of La Stella from afar and when he found her, he told himself that he honestly had nothing to do with that innocent, wonderful coincidence.

It took him by surprise, this obsession, something so foreign, so human. He was a man who had been rarely surprised in his life, but it slipped into his every thought, soaked through his pores. And he really did try to let it go, to forget about her, to deliberately put her in a far corner of his mind, and pray that she would recede and fade. But it seemed stronger than him. He couldn’t keep thoughts of her at bay, something always so maddeningly unexpected. There was nothing to help his case. When on an assassination, looking through his scope he sometimes saw her ghost walking across the circular vision, a distracting shadow, and during the hours of sleepless nights he imagined her there beside him or strolling outside the bedroom door.
 And his desires were changing his thoughts, spicing them up.

 One day he was back on a roof top in a posture of an assassin doing what assassins did best, only this time his only this time his sole tool was a binoculars. And it was then as he held it to his eyes, looking at her lengthily, her body strong and smooth going through the motions of Yoga in her living room– an arch of nimble spine, a wave from slender arm, a seductive curve of graceful neck– mindless and completely mesmerizing did the assassin became a stalker.
It was helpless. He was helpless…

Stalker. Abductor. Lover 4 (sequence2)

Holy shit! It can’t be. It bloody hell just can NOT be!!
It was her again. Here. Her
My restaurant…
Nicolas was not the kind of guy who was used to seeing a certain person, a certain group of people even, frequently. But to see that woman twice in one day… when only less than two days ago he…
In his mind, the other possibility resounded complete.
In any other circumstances he would have slipped out of the place and made plans to lay as low as possible for a few days. He would have thought that his Profile had been compromised, taking her for the one sent to take him out. He would make sure that his suspicions were correct, then he would spring into action, eliminating the threat without further delay.
But now he could only stare, could only concentrate on the fundamental act of breathing in and out until the scene unfolded… till he could… till he…
For the few seconds it took her to speak again, a loud ringing attacked his ears, and his heart was dismayed, each irregular pump sent cold blood through his veins.
Oh God, what was happening to him?
She stopped, standing between the two “What is the matter?” she asked, looking from the near-panic in her waitress’ eyes to the indignant glint in the man’s.
The man lifted an accusing finger at the girl “That… waitress brought me the wrong drink and says that it was I who made that mistake. Now do I come here to be called stupid…”
But she held a halting hand before him “There is no need for that now, Mr. Akram. I shall not tolerate any insult one way or another directed at any of my staff without my full comprehension of the situation” she said, clasping her hands behind her back, her eyes seemed to bore into his  ” Not even from you sir. We have been hosting you here for a long time, in the other two branches as well”  despite the the difference in their height, she stood her ground quelling every attempt he made to nose in, all the while looking him straight in the face.
She was a young woman who knew who she was, knew what she was capable of. And she was making him look like a child without him knowing it.
“Have you ever made a complaint, sir? hmm?” she asked, leaning just an inch toward him.
“No. But that doesn’t mean that the order wasn’t wrong” he  replied, losing the edge of anger in his voice.
“Amira” she called to the girl –who had made her a buffer between the man and herself– inclining her head to the side “Is this true?”
The girl stepped to the woman’s side, holding out a trembling hand with the pad in it “No, ma’am. Here is the order, with the date of today and the number of the table”
She only took a look at the pad “All right, you may go back to your work now”
The girl fled.
“Aren’t you going to…”
Again, she cut him off, with a polite half a smile “Now, sir, I believe there had been a dreadful misunderstanding” then she turned to the room at large and announced  “There is no need to be alarmed every one. I apologize for any unnecessary inconvenience, or delay in your schedules. You may proceed.”
It had the effect of a royal order.
“Now, Mr. Akram, would you care to carry on with this in my office? Or would you like to take it outside?”  the way her face shed all expressions of civilized control of the situation and open friendliness, the way those large eyes met his told that she was all too ready to “take it outside” for real.
Mr. Akram seemed to deflate “No. Of course not. It is okay. I will just get another order”
Then suddenly her face stretched with the broadest, most genuine of smiles “Great!” she clasped her hand together “Henry” she called to a waiter, who rushed to her side like a breeze, pad and pen in his hands at the ready ” with my Morning Order get Mr. Akram his usual order. Potent cappuccino with whipped cream and no sugar” she turned to Mr. Akram, now bedazzled by her smiles “Am I right?”
He nodded “Yes. Very”
“Great. Now, Henry off you go.”
“Right away, ma’am.”
And right before he was out of ear shot “And Henry” she called
He turned swiftly to face her “Yes”
“Make it on the house” she winked. He was off.
Nicolas thought that he was glad with not having a hurried morning schedule, he thought that he preferred a shadowy existence paralleled to that of everybody else. And he thought that his runs every morning brought him a great deal of joy in a world where joy took very little part. He thought that being the best in what he was without fail brought him a little sense of justice, a way of revenge, since he didn’t choose to do what he did.
He neither choose to meet her, nor expect it to bring him such happiness.
And that was something he was beginning to learn something about right now as he looked at her while she settled at a table not so far from his, so unaware of him.

It was absurd, really, this claim, judging from the length of time he spent in … well, the outskirts of her presence.
He couldn’t look away, though.
He watched her in a state of awe. An unaffected part of his brain was aware that his body was moving through his breakfast, even though he had no memory of when it had gotten before him. His foot drummed, hand holding a sandwich, the forefinger of the other was hooked through the china cup ear. But he only registered watching her like he had never watched a target before– as she crossed her legs under the table, looked through some papers, her jaw chopping food in precise strong cuts, throat convulsing in a swallow, and how her sharp eyes observed the work of her property over the rim of her juice glass.
He remembered the first time he had seen her. How he was first struck by her hair. It was down and free, catching stray rays of sunset, now it was clipped up, forming a crown at the back of her head and falling to her neck in thick brownish fountain with little wisps escaping at the fringes and temples.
He watched and was lost to his realities.
He didn’t know what, but something in her called to him. He didn’t know how, but something kept twisting their paths together –a higher power? the hope he had felt when he passed below her window? a wish he had made upon a star that night?

  Nicolas left La Stella that day knowing two things. One, a part of him was abandoned inside, clinging to the freshness of her, which led to number two.
He couldn’t see her again. Ever. He would not. In a world like his, such mundane things could not be afforded. It would do them both grave injustice.

  In the following months, he committed to his decision the way he set out to complete his assignments.
But fate must have known that neither of them would make a move without a tactful intervention.
He ran into her in the super market, literally bumping into her (never mind that the intervention had a serious lack in tact). This time she looked at him, meaning him, and said she was sorry for being so clumsy, and he discovered the sweetness of her voice when she wasn’t running her own personal hive. And for one very brief moment, he felt the softness of a woman’s body. But embarrassment and the need to voice an apology were not what stopped her short in the act of moving away from him and going on with her way.
It was his eyes and how they looked into hers. Not a look of annoyance, or surprise. But a look of recognition.
It was down right crazy to think that in that moment she knew him, too, that she had taken a note of him in her restaurant, and remembered passing him by the other morning.
And Nicolas didn’t know why, but it seemed to him that there was no getting away from this one .
He watched her walk away with an apologetic smile. she was not repulsed by the scar that ran from his lift eyebrow, curved away from his cheek and jagged back to his chin? she wasn’t afraid?
she really wasn’t!
How nice.  He  felt a smile.
And his life was never the same. 

A Thought…

I dreamed I was missing. In the crowd there was emptiness that was once my place.
I woke up to the sea launching its cold cover over me, fear wrapping toothy roots around my lungs. I could not breathe.
Then my eyes opened to a brightness that for a moment didn’t seem real. Once everything fell into place, fear became panic trembling through my bones.
I was so far away from home.
I was wide awake, all alone in this exile of emptiness.
My legs dragged themselves away from the lapping sea, the clinging sand creeping on me, stinging my skin as I walked to where I knew not of.
I tried  to find my way out of my torture, but I was far too weak.
Pain had eroded all that once supported me.
So, I cried. My legs gave out. I fell to the damp ground as I let more tears wash over my face.
I prayed that these tears would drain me out, would eat away my features and more beyond that till I no longer existed.
Time ticked my days away as the tears kept coming. I didn’t know what day it was or how much longer it was going to last.
And then, as I was at the point of breaking, something incredible happened.
I had been blind until your light came over my sight. I thought I had gone deaf, till I caught your whisper calling my name. I was half senseless, but then I felt your touch breathing life back into my cells.
You kneeled before me and took my hands. I looked up into another sea that was you
r eyes, gentle and endless.
I smiled finally, believing that now this emptiness would be no more, this gloom would no longer haunt me.
“Take me home, my beloved” I said to you “Take me away and turn this hell into paradise”

My favorite times

Do you not think that rain is the most fabulous natural phenomena?

I love it. It always starts with hesitant darkening of the skies, grey clouds slowly invade the peaceful blue, they settle over and conceal the sun behind the thickening veil. First a single flash of lightening catches my eyes and holds me mesmerized for a moment as if I was hit by it. I walk closer to the window and closer still until I am totally pressed against it. The thought of me must be looking like a freak in the eyes of the onlookers doesn’t even pass my mind, for I close my eyes and listen to the distant approach of thunder. Deep threats in the belly of the sky. On first impression it feels like an ice cube gliding down my spine, but then fascination takes over, and I start wondering… How could such invisible self-producing force create terror worse than the sounds of shooting war cannons? It is scary I know, and Mamma, while it’s on the going, walks unsurely around the house, her eyes cast downward, her legs stiff  and lips uttering murmured prayers. It is like the sky is falling to the earth. But to me…oh, it is just beautiful.

I love it. And I hate when the sky clouds over and it just doesn’t rain, I feel like looking up into the grey sky and yell “What the hell!! Are you messing with me lady?”

Rain makes me think of Allah, so merciful and unforgetful. Rain eases the ache of thirst in the deprived throats, rain gives hope to the poor who can only live on planting, rain puts out fire. Those people, in our daily busy lives, we hardly think of them, but Allah….He is great. He feels your pain, too, because the sky cries when you are hurt and can’t say a word. Think of the world after the rain. The nature’s true colours, the green of the leaves, the brown of the trunks, the wonderful scents, the clean streets, as if Allah is reminding us of how the world should be, beautiful. It’s kind of a reproach. Threats, He can take us all out with a fierce torrent.

I always see clearer through the sheet of rain drops, the rumbling of thunder in my ears. As if I am a part of something MASSIVE and my troubles…well, they pale in the face of this enormity. And as I listen to the drops thrashing down the surroundings, the lights dimming, the world growing quieter till all is hushed, I feel the stirring of inspiration some where inside.

Don’t you think as if the world is stretching out a hand and offering us a chance? A chance to start over. To do better. To put a limit to our ego. To find our faith… No wonder they say “God was recognized by sheer awareness”


And I dream almost constantly of rain, the freedom of standing under it. Beauty. Therefore I often cry in those dreams or when it’s raining for real.

it is painfully long, but for a  reason I wanted YOU to share my thoughts with.

So what comes to your mind when the world is taking a shower?:)

A Peasant’s Tale

It is a strange thing to wish to die. Strange to see the jaws of death open wide, see the bottomless darkness inside and find your heart with numbed fear. Instead you are eager for the point of that brief pain…

  I am a single tendril of the wind, weakened by ages of weariness, renewed by divined wills. I blow around all the four directions, moved by a perfect system set by the One God.
I have no home.
I am always on the move.
But now I stand still, watching a crack in the system I have always worshiped in the poise of a man standing at the very edge of the bridge’s rail. I know who he is.
His back is hunched, his skin is reddened by the sting of sun, his hands are roughened from the handle of his ax that had grown a part of him. And many times I have watched wrinkles form around his eyes as he squinted to the sun of every day’s end and inhaled air he had once so loved and smiled.
I know this man, yet it is hard now to recognize him.
He is stooping, he is beaten, the arms have lost the support of muscles, the face has forgotten how to draw a smile, and the eyes… striking in their haunted gaze.
The river stretches quiet below his toes, deep and thick with bottom that no feet can reach. He doesn’t look down, he stares ahead , lost to the world, swept aside by the tide of the oblivious crowd.
But we both know what shall take place. We both know and it can’t be saved.
It looks like it is too late.
So before I take off like I always do, I stand still, a different atom in this strange atmosphere, and I listen on his thoughts…

It all starts and ends with a sigh.
God sighed into Adam and he came to life. Mother sighed when the last push was over and I was born. And I sigh now, but I don’t feel it.
I am looking at you.
Who are you? what have you done with the one I’d once knew?
Unanswerable questions, I wonder how many times I have asked.
 I see the world is increasingly taking after you. There is something dreadfully wrong
The air is tainted with smoke, the water is stale, murky with sneaky poison, your features are changing grotesquely and you are ugly like a nightmare from realty.
 Oh, Great Mother, you once upon a time were a lighthouse of goodness, the beams of light that no body could put out, the one component that gave everything else sense.

Oh, time is treacherous, it feels like it never happened.
 I witnessed your rises and your falls. At your core I choose no where else to go.
What is it that altered you?
Do you now feel old? Do you now feel the weight of time?
Are you about to buckle under this burden?
Do you know who am I? Do you remember my face?… or have you forgotten?
  The years I broke my bones building you
  The times when I suffered to hold the columns of your greatness upright
  The centuries I bowed my head in respect, always loving you even when you shut the arms of comfort in my face.
  And when you stepped on my spines to reach for the stars, spilled my blood to mark your territories.

Who was there for you, Great Mother?

Don’t turn the other cheek! How dare you deny me?!
It is me!!
I made you… I charted your plan on the desert sands. It was with the sweat of my brow that it became green. I constructed your cities, brick by brick… Taking pain and insults for the sake to see you great.
And I loved you.
 From your short nights to the hard sun…
From your soil and dazzling gold…
From your floods to reemerging of life… 
While your bones rusted and as I scuffed them clean…
Your lapses and regeneration of your cells…
Along tunnels of darkness with ends of blinding joy
I may not know the reasons for my many questions, so I won’t ask you why or press you to recall what happened.
Because now as I stand on the cliff of mortality and take a look around you, knowing that you’re mirroring so much that is happening beyond you I know that it is no longer a matter of what or why.
It is a question of when.
A moment, a drastic detour, another sigh, but I am sure that it is the truth beneath the mask of lies.
It all happened when your eyes were blindfolded, and gave in to the resistance of the current…
when you like the way you held the sword of power and went around acting like a god.
when you lied and said “I am doing it for others”
when you thought you were here to stay
when you shed my skin and looked down on me
when you turned your back and put on strange ropes, built towers and dams, believing false promises
when you held a gun against a poor soul… and when my trees were bared and you did nothing.
One fallacy after the other
And when you walked down the road of forgetfulness…
You’ve forgotten who you are, what you were of
You’ve forgotten the beauty the beauty I still see in you
You’ve forgotten that you were people who once worshiped this river and lived on hopes to see the dawn spead its rays over this land
You’ve forgotten that you knew how to love, and were in harmony with all else
You’ve forgotten what I am to you and took the turn of sorrow with no apparent
Who are you? I hear you wonder
Well, I am life and now you seem to be losing that too.

Then he took the plunge, closing his eyes in surrender to the inevitable. A fall as silent as the fall of tears in this vast emptiness.
What a tragedy!

Other winds catch at me, trying to carry me along, but I am adamant. I want to stay. Even though I am but air, I cannot be contained.
I cannot be tamed.
And maybe, just maybe I will grab the peasant in time.
Maybe I will heave a sigh of freshness into this messed-up world.
My tears dried and I glided forward, certain that rotting in place is like the impact of whip on naked flesh… hopeful that this death would spring a new life.

A Letter from a Heart to a Nation


 ,                                                                                               Dear Egypt

You are upside down again, withering with the fire of injustice, randomness, insecurity and distrust. So sudden it all happened as if you have pulled the rug from beneath my feet.

I am confused.

I don’t know what to do.

My exams are gripping my nerves in a vice of tension. I am cool on the exterior, but waiting for the last second to tick.

We are alike that way, you and I.


How long has your anger boiled low?

How long have they kept your mouth stuffed, your eyes blinded and ears ringing? Off-balance and unsure.

How long have your subdued people protested with silent cries? Believed what they were told, their stomachs filled with venomous lies?


How long, Great Mother?


Oh, how I love your sun-tanned face, the scent of your breath and the strong life of you once-worshipped Vein. My favorite joy is to take a walk along your lines, feel your agelessness wrap around my heart. I wonder at your beauty as the sun dips low and think that there must be a God, for you are a work of art that can only be wrought by the hands of the Divine.

Every night I sit and watch your face as you rest your bones under the rising moon, but still I can feel vivid beating through you.

I lay awake and know that my night will not end unless I see your sun slanting through my window.

Oh, I know I will forever love you.


But suddenly your features crease into a frown. I feel you shifting. Your grounds are shaking

“What’s going on, Great Mother?” I ask, but an answer, you do not give.

I watch in terror as your people turn against each other, the earth is rippling, the unity is breaking as your breath growing heavier upon my skin, molding my lungs.
“What’s wrong, Great Mother?”

Your Vein is seeping dry. You are growing older and older by the second before my very eyes.

There is nothing I can do, for you are not the one I used to know.

Everybody is angry, they are fueled with rage.

They march destruction through your sturdy, ancient streets.

It is like a demon has possessed every pair of eyes. Everyone now is an enemy to the other.


Are you so very sick, you are releasing your caged frenzy upon us?
Do you hate us so much you look like you are asking God for a final flood? One great death and we all shall be no more?


I wish I could somehow relate to the labor you are going through.

But I am filled with accusing frustration, and it is directed at you…

 Maybe we are all punch of cowards, but you could have said something, done something?

Why have you kept silent that long? Why don’t you ever let your cry echo through the walls?

How come I can no longer get in touch with you while I am so much in love with you?

How come you are not listening?


What now, Great Mother? Are you still thirsted for more?

I have so much bottled up that if said, would block the eye of your sun.

All I want is your ears and hand. Is it too much for the thousands of years we have shared?


Oh,Egypt, how I long for your hopeful smile.

It’s all so dark around me. I need its light.


Without a smile, without a breeze,

Without a leader. Without my sight…

I’d shed one more tear as I say

“Oh, how I ache to relate to you…”




Lost and Confused.