Color Of the Rain

His path leads between the old and new Yemen. Here in the city, he came to see the big man, bigger than him, to put a word or two for the much needed water, electricity, a school. He carries the customary gift as the sign of respect and good will. In the city, paths became roads, white roads. Citizens were shopping, changed jobs, and were laughing. Under arcades of Law Street seated in the shadow, the merchants of raw silk, gilded brocades, Damask linen. A rose in a straight blue garment.

His path is one of long dusty roads and empty loneliness. He remembered apricots dressed in white in spring and long waiting for the rain. Dry seasons, emptiness and gloominess, of swollen eyes. It was already the month of Jumada, May, and the rains did not come. All their history was filled with sun light, each hole was filled with rains. In the past years, he discovered the secret of their history. How they wrote and hid the truth, when they had to survive. Mornings without light, the stars flickering like a dying man. The far horizon, a funeral scene and night engulfing like a tomb.

The valley and the land sunken in deep silence. All around them was dying. They walked in sadness like the wind. Thousand birds and thousand spiders had died. They sang

Wheat and water are cut from us.
Eat our love!
Drink our tears!

It was an ordinary day. The sun firmly rested on the sky. In the distance lighting and sounds of thunder. Black clouds, as drummers, announcing the arrival of thousand of warriors. The clouds sailed as waves in the sea. Finally, as the earth and trees would stir, or part, the rains came. Rain kept falling and falling. On geometric terraces it turned into streams. The water hugged the roots in dry sand and gave them life.

Rain on dust.
Dust on rain.

They felt alive because they were so close to death. The place changed into a village full of people, celebrating the rain. All around them, the earth turned into mud. The sang

Oh, we don’t ask you for more.
Now that beauty and time are ours.

The summer came with flowers and orchids. Jasmine stirred. The valley shimmered in sun. The old man lay consciously listening to the whisper of the ocean of tall palm trees, their scent of garden.

What did he think, he had left to fear? The voice said, we have come to you – a beach night – in a sterile white year of our own accord. We are of your ilk! The days begun running faster and faster. What is the use of spring once is passed? And life, what does it say? To taste the smell of autumn and ask the night for dreams – and a man lived.

At the end there is nothing!.
Whisper of desert wind.
Sounds of bells of
departing camels.

Artwork by Yemeni artist Amina Nassiri