Seeking harmony [Archives:2003/653/Culture]
By Irena Knehtl
For the Yemen Times
Years after wars, dry seasons, sand storms, wild seas, and seasons plenty of rains
when baskets were full of grapes, gold brown dates, melons,
papayas and mangos, he phoned her.
Peace be with you, said the voice.
She immediately recognized him at once from the voice. His voice was
trembling. He seemed nervous, afraid. With the trembling she, suddenly,
heard again the voices of near bye mountains. Now brown and dusty.
Where the silence fell with the waking birds. And setting moon.
The aridity of the soil.
The tiny mountain pathways.
The summer head in the shadowless roads.
Great clouds of rising dust.
In the souks the morning clamour was stilled, as merchants and customers
alike stood immobile, women whispered and some prayed.
Peace be with you, she replied.
He did not know what to say.
How is it, he finally asked after long pause.
Good, she replied short.
Again long pause. He knew, she begun writing. About man, land, dignity,
and freedom. About freedom of thousand faces above the sky, which they
never had. He remembered the fire in his heart. And apricot blossoms
in her hair. How he remembered to forget. How he wanted to be like a
mountain in front of her to shield her.
His voice was trembling now. Was afraid. All life was good. He knew it now.
Only man makes it evil. He was free now to desert purpose and seek harmony.
There were rumors of rain.
A chain of voices
Imaginings of sand
He had rose water brought to wash his eyes.
He could spend the winter, the summer, and then another winter and another summer here.
For he was in his own land in midst of
Pavilion of roses and
The sea of mood.
He did not know what to say. And then he told her. Told her
what he could not tell her all the many years.
The he loves her.
Will always love her.