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.
