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Khadra Iman Sawere


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What Is
© 2004

Death is diminishment
a depletion of the sum
an irrevocable position of subtraction
How measure the potential and the possible
to weigh in the balance
as gold coin or silver pieces
what is lost is beyond redemption
a diminishment of creation.

Diminishment is a death of the spirit
an assault of the breath of God
an irreversible act of malignity
the assassination of dignity

Dignity is the prevalence of virtue
a stature of obligation
an obeisance of the spirit
the memories of a man in God’s law
the root of eternal life

Life is the blessing of the immortal
the gift of the divine
the homage of humanity




the night wind
© 2004

the night wind breaths fire,
turning notes on wind chimes,
echoes of the far away,
rememberance of the long ago,
the yet to be.
hints of timelessness in spice,
life is the corridors of the wind,
the smell of roses from the passing caravans.
the wind is the merciful laughter of our movement,
the soon to be,
the vision of the near at hand,
promise of another day.
the night wind breaths devotion.




Fear © 2004

I am asked, “why there is so much blood in the sand?”

Consider two strangers meet as the sun sets by the oasis. Should they arrive with fear in each of their hearts, neither sleeps. From the distrust springs forth war and there is blood in the sand.

Should they arrive, one with fear in his heart, the other without fear, one sleeps while the other sleeps not. From the darkness springs forth murder, and there is blood in the sand.

Both arrive without fear, both sleeps well and soundly. From the rising of the morning sun they rise and depart towards their destinations.

I am asked, “why there is so much blood in the sand?”

The answer is that the blood in the sand is equal to the fear in the heart.





Hatred
© 2004

Hatred is a fisted heart,
closed and hard,

It is closed eyes,
and as such, shall never see.

Hatred is a denial.
To hate is ultimate surrender.


Meeting
© 2004

May our words be as the wind of our hearts
our smiles as a kite dancing with the breath of God
All that is good fill the sails of our vessel
that we may end our journey at Love.



Patriarch
© 2004

In the morning the breeze warmed and caressed the trees in the orchards, the sounds of the pickers as they walked through the gates, laughter and companionship in the early hours. Hard hands turned to gentle plucking of ripe fruit, talking politics and metaphoric reason as the sun climbed high into the azure. Behind ancient sun bleached walls children scampered after soccer balls. He would sit there, long ago, before the lines of time across his face, and watch the passing days. He sits there still, silently awaiting the chance to speak of older times, peaceful times, and the days that went before.

The young men today strut by in purposeful intent, goals and visions clearly carved in their imaginations. Their words are not the poetry of the elder men sitting on the wall, but the precision of meaning. They speak in surgery, dissecting the truth from the actions without room and margin for error or interpretation. There is anger underlying their impatience, an urgency that consumes and overwhelms their feelings. The passion remains, but the channels of the river have changed.

The rising sun drives old and young alike from the streets into rooms of shades and shadows where the stories take on the somber tones of ancient songs. Here, in the shades, the women stay out of sight, chattering and nattering away of local issues and gossips while the men gather to talk of distant realms and the rule of laws. Whose laws? The old laws of clay and dust, the laws of the herder in the inhospitable? Or the new laws, the laws of distance, separation, the laws that follow silver and gold? The old man from the wall sits silently, waiting the time to speak while the younger voices fill the air with hyperboly and invective.

It is a division that grows slowly, widening the gulf between fathers and sons, slowly swollowing the very names of the land itself. Old ways fade unused, slowly forgotten with the goats that no longer feed on the grasses of the orchard. The fruit hangs from the trees, awaiting the evening breezes and the hands to return. For now, the voices speak in harsh tones, the heat of tea and coffee filling the heart, stirring emotion. The old man smiles, they think him a fool as he nods but does not speak, all the while watching and waiting for the right time, the time when ears will hear.

As they leave, he rises slowly, listening for the sounds of the women. He is silent, creating an empty room calling to the small hands used to hard labors. He smiles as they enter, a breach of custom, and speaks with the voice of roses, herbs and delicacies.

"Thank you."

He smiles and follows the distant voices of men in the rose haze of a setting sun patiently.








"No Arab loves the desert.
We love water and green trees."

My Novels:

Writer's Muses
Battle! - Out of Print
Souvenir de la Mal Maison - Out of Print
VELO - Out of Print

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