Would you believe me if I say It’s difficult to write a poem this morning.
I woke up with an intention, with a song delayed. The days are slow in the village.
time dilates proportionally here and space around me hesitates:
My aunt cleans the driveway; The trees don’t move nor does my body
not today nor yesterday; I hear the rooster cooing in the distance.
The only entertaining thing is the cloudy haze fluffy and soft.
They form many shapes and replay for my mind to watch and catch them
I breath again and again. Would you believe that it’s so hard to write a poem
especially when your life depends on it. The world silent to my ears
it requires patience. To write a poem means to collect the scattered
selves of mine left between the bed sheets and bookshelves.
And this morning, the task is hard.
AICHA BINT YUSIF 