Color of the Sky
Men died to make her theirs. Their blood spilled over her white dress. The last name they uttered was hers. Her name was Revolution.
It was the traces of her feet that men kissed and adored. They believed she brought luck. That she brought love to their doors. They believed it was God-sent. Her name was Revolution. Men died to make her theirs. Their blood spilled over her white dress. The last name they uttered was hers. One fine morning in Sanaa, she rose to make dreams come true. She was crowned and throned
For making the mountains part
For making the waters part
The storms turned into a clear blue sky and Freedom. Freedom shone as grape leaves after the monsoon rains. Danced as date palms leaves in spring storm. Tasted like coffee with cardamom and tea with spices. Raisins did not get stuck in the throat. Almonds melted on the tang. Cotton leaves sung. Tobacco leaves went wild.
All were swept in a scrambled swirling.
Their Mokha coffee colored mind in the sky beyond. They themselves were like date palms, their heads in fire and legs in water. Each tree, each cloud in a starless sky in spring thunder. In the storm music. Alabaster oil lamps lighting the night.
Kissed eyes.
Lights that were suddenly switched on. Sweat and blended. A raindrop glistened. Their voices were full of green geometric terraces. White banners across blue skies that kissed eyes. Terraces that opened into the Arab sea with guiet deep swimming fish. That year they had one harvest instead of two.
The smell of old roses, loneliness, clouds, despair all arrived unexpected afterwoods. Ornamental garden wilted and died. Their shiny clothes and thick gold earrings. A small country with familiar landscape. In the absence of words and emptiness in eyes. They watched taxis come and go. At a single traffic light They watched governments come and go in colors of the dark.
A raindrop glistened. Their voice were full of green geometric terraces. There are things that can be forgotten and things that cannot. Like hooked fingers and sudden smiles. How they stood alone in an empty field turmoil. Their faces in the heaven and recited the Book of Life. Like children sheltering from a storm. It seemed too far away, the Arab sea. The geometric terraces too few. That year they had one harvest instead of two. The air was quiet except for the air.
Hearts were beating, but they beat alone.
Artwork by Yemeni artist Fuad AlFutaih
For making the mountains part
For making the waters part
The storms turned into a clear blue sky and Freedom. Freedom shone as grape leaves after the monsoon rains. Danced as date palms leaves in spring storm. Tasted like coffee with cardamom and tea with spices. Raisins did not get stuck in the throat. Almonds melted on the tang. Cotton leaves sung. Tobacco leaves went wild.
All were swept in a scrambled swirling.
Their Mokha coffee colored mind in the sky beyond. They themselves were like date palms, their heads in fire and legs in water. Each tree, each cloud in a starless sky in spring thunder. In the storm music. Alabaster oil lamps lighting the night.
Kissed eyes.
Lights that were suddenly switched on. Sweat and blended. A raindrop glistened. Their voices were full of green geometric terraces. White banners across blue skies that kissed eyes. Terraces that opened into the Arab sea with guiet deep swimming fish. That year they had one harvest instead of two.
The smell of old roses, loneliness, clouds, despair all arrived unexpected afterwoods. Ornamental garden wilted and died. Their shiny clothes and thick gold earrings. A small country with familiar landscape. In the absence of words and emptiness in eyes. They watched taxis come and go. At a single traffic light They watched governments come and go in colors of the dark.
A raindrop glistened. Their voice were full of green geometric terraces. There are things that can be forgotten and things that cannot. Like hooked fingers and sudden smiles. How they stood alone in an empty field turmoil. Their faces in the heaven and recited the Book of Life. Like children sheltering from a storm. It seemed too far away, the Arab sea. The geometric terraces too few. That year they had one harvest instead of two. The air was quiet except for the air.
Hearts were beating, but they beat alone.
Artwork by Yemeni artist Fuad AlFutaih
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