1

If matters was in my hand
And custom was a thing of the past
I would wait until full Moon
And travel to our hill, hold your hand
I will smile to melt your soul
And as nature surround us
Let this soil that we came from
And to it we shall return
bare witness
Let the sky
bare witness
Let the cloud
bare witness
Let the years that greyed my hair
And the wrinkles that age me
Bare witness
that this women in me
Who drew you near her, so you
Can hear every heart beat in her tone
So you smell the aftermath of our
Cold War scented on my
African dress, it’s your
Favourite dress, I wore it twice
Once back then when you have
Mistaken me for qurbani, and now
As I take matters in my hand
Bare witness
that I am leaving you
To wash off this dress of it’s
Redness
Past
Of me
And of you

Advertisements

About Samra

Poet and fundraiser for humanitarian causes. Lives in London
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s