Tower Of Dreams, Attar of Roses

Dreams of dusty roads. Summers in Sana’a is a season of dust. Bougainvillea are the only flower I care for and when I see them tumbled along the city fences and walls, fully exploded, nodding at the ground, hanging their heads but not yet spoiled, I remembered a summer (maybe seven years ago, or more?), I wasn’t sure our love would come again, and here I am almost dancing along with the palm trees like that, bursting and rich.

Every day I leave Assr and take the bus to AlBab. The red spirit, I am cooked happy. The restaurants are by now blanketed with the cold. The yellow streetlights are trying to sneak their way in. Colors, culinary and cheer. There is not enough stillness, not enough distance. No time for poses. And the cardamom breath. Of tales in the underarms – and that lemony odors – it’s good.

I looked in the bus mirror and felt a strange hollow feeling in my stomach, when his messages started coming in. If I were at the sea, I would send you thousand greetings with the waves, he wrote from a dusty mountain place. The voice of an angel. Happiness and sadness. Walking the line by the sea. A million nightingales. Memory and desire. Do you still remember how on that day you wore the uniform and I served tea, I wrote back from the bus backseat. Do you remember? I have not forgotten that moment.

This happens every year. Towards the end of August I tear out the August page and grow restless. There is no escape. The world keeps breaking hearts, keeps leaving roses, keeps living blind, keeps wasting treasures. Then they themselves along with others enter the cavern of darkness. Trapped with no brother. The Age of Aquarius. Bear with me, there is more to hear. Tell you the truth blue is my favorite color.

August surprised with a shower of rain. A little life. And went on in sunlight. Drank coffee and talked for an hour. A heap of broken images. In the mountains, there you feel free. Shadows at evening rising to meet you. Your shadow at morning striding behind you. Your arms full and your wet hair. My eyes failed looking into the heart of light, the silence.

One eyed merchant. Crowds of people, walking around in ring. One must be careful these days. Unreal city. With the dead sound. Will it bloom this year, tangles of riotous colors of bougainvillea, vibrant colors, sensational blooms? Flowers like papery modified leaves which appear all along the branches and the tips – thins white, tube – shaped flowers - vigorous ground cover, bushes or climbers. Glowed on the marble.

The glitter of jewels rose to meet it. Vials of ivory and colored glass. Synthetic perfumes drowned the sense in odors, stirred by the air. Footsteps shuffled on the stairs. Glowed into words. Nothing and again nothing. Do you see nothing? Do you remember. Nothing?

I remember. Those are pearls that were his eyes. Crossing the brown land. The wadi which bears no empty bottles. Silk handkerchief, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends.

The sound of horns and motors. Departed left no address. The moon shone bright. Unreal city. Unshaven. Like a taxi throbbing waiting, between two lives. A small house with one bold stare. The meal is ended. Exploring hand. Walked among the lowest of the dead. The wadi sweats. The brisk swell. Mud towers. Dusty trees. Burning. Nothing. Burning. I can connect. Humble people who expect. Nothing. Broken fingernails of dry hands. Nothing. Burning. Sweaty faced under torchlight. Profit and loss. Frosty silence in the bustan. Agony of stony places. Prison and palace. Thunder of spring over distant mountains. He who was living is now dead. Those who were living are now dying.

The road winding above among the mountains. Dead mountains. There is not even silence in the mountains. Sterile thunder without rains. Red sullen faces. From mud cracked houses. Palm trees singing. Plains ringed by flat horizon. A village over the mountain. Cracks and reforms and burst into the empty air. Falling towers. Unreal. Voices singing from empty wells. Controlling hands.

I stand taken by the different shades of grays, blues, the calming hues of the sky. My lungs inhaling and exhaling to the sensual dance of the palm trees. A tear falls on my skin., which radiates and is possessed by colors, textures. A vibrancy wrapped up in the essence of me, the women, who will create and breath life into the souls of all the trees and seas, above and beyond. The moment is heaven.

To me this World is all One, a continued Vision of Fancy and Imagination, inspired by a range of opportunities and ideas. A force of nature whose methods are as predictable and dependable as they are unstoppable.

Yemeni art by Hani