Songs of Anisha
Will find their way, and why should I wait ten years yet, having lived sixty-
seven, ten years more or less,
Before I crawl out on a ledge of rock and die snapping, like a wolf
Who has lost his mate? I am bound by my own thirty-year-old decision:
who drinks the wine
Should take the dregs; even in the bitter lees and sediment
New discovery may lie.
The deer in that beautiful place lay down their
bones: I must wear mine.
“Amarya,”
by Al-kasim Abdulkadir
Now that you have uncovered the veil
And thy shy smile peeks out
What tales shall you bear?
Not tales of broken pots
For brides beget not broken pots.
Nor darken pots.
Now that your chattering friends
Have left you in the company of
Suitcases of Atampa and stacks of ceramics
What tales shall you bear?
And the morning after
After the warm embrace of the night
And the caress of the night breeze
And the fragrance of rain
What tales shall you bear, Amarya?
What tales Amarya?
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