By Ahmed Latif
Behind the closed shutters of this inconspicuous house
A woman watches the musicals and symphonies
The street below holds for her secret entertainment.
In the garden on the roof she is lost in skylines and storylines.
A dreaming state is but the shackles of a lonely imagination.
The lucidity of life is nothing more than a flood on the senses.
A vulgar reminder that we are at the mercy of self-perception.
There is no freedom like digging holes and no prison like a mirror.
In the end her home is only a promising grave
To hold all the dreams she picked off a tree the wind gifted her.
So she retreats into the alcoves and abodes of this vast dream,
Where liberated clouds provide shade as a matter of principle.
In this dream, light and darkness are theories no one believes.
On this timid estate, pleasant shadows frolic in the sunlight.
They are little thieves and monarchs in an eternal love spiral.
Until their hearts rupture and spill the love into the wind.
Then the wind grows supple with words for the dreamer.
It yearns to speak to her but it could never dare more than a whisper.
The wind choreographs a whistling song and a whirling dervish.
They fly together, each on their own volition and with their own wings.
Finally when the wind spoke, it died out of joy.
Then the dream was lost, only to be lost forever.
Life and death are lovers in a quarrel over the world.