Do these city streets

know where I come from?

and do they regard the winds

from my Home

with the respect they deserve

for crossing the seven seas

and bringing

the sweet scents

of my Homeland

back to me?


the drifting scents of

sweets from the confectioner's shop

and the aroma of my Homeland's

soil after the first spring rain,

the smell of morning dew

at dawn when the mosque

is filling up with people

and their prayers.


the sky above

is the same one

that shines brightly,

with winking stars

over my Home

when

the electricity blinks out.

the stars that guide all

the hardworking factory

workers Home

after a long day.

and I thank the universe

for allowing me

the privilege

to share that sky

every night.


my mother named me

“Spring”

after the season

of my Home.

the season of celebration

after a year of hard work

out in the fields

that marks the celebration

of a fruitful harvest.

and the colors

of the kites that

fly overhead like birds.

free.


the colors of the honey

skin of a field worker in the

burning yellow sun,

the rainbow of the

glass bangles that

the villagers make with

their hands.

and the green of my

Homeland's flag.

and the colors painted

with love on the trucks

by workers who

sing the songs of Home.


and the threads that

the village seamstress spins

into clothes she sews with love

of her craft.

and the paint that the potter

uses to add finishing touches

to a handcrafted vase.


but the kites no longer fly,

even the stars are

a bit shy.


the work of the

factory workers,

the seamstress

and the potter

is now replaced with

dispensable machines

without a heart

and the love of colors.


my Home is now

an old photograph

that I carry in my heart,

of a stolen yesterday

and an absent tomorrow.


what now remains is a past

reflected in my name.

a name

that mirrors

the colors

of a Home

that no longer is.


what remains now

is a mere piece of land

fathoms of oceans away

many shades too light,

and bleached away

to be defined as Home.