I’m losing my memory.
Sitting and silence engulf us both.
Sculptures on display in a museum dimly lit.

My inner traveller has arrived at his final destination,
Or perhaps we both have.
I clung to your hand,
Like a lost bird,

I forgot to let go
For the whole performance,
To hold the other,
So we journey together…
Like intertwined sunbeams
Making their way to the warmth.
Thus did I become the one

Who paints words on a pond of light
But never sends it.
I am prone to forgetting
That rooms have doors
For entering and for leaving,
That stories end
That cities have airports and ports
And that none of us could grasp the true meaning of time and its mission.

Late came we…
As befits dreamers.
Bearing enough disappointment,
Feeding a monster
That is never sated.

Frost seeps into the joints no longer
My concern alone.

So where are you going?
Leave me your voice,
Cairo’s poem,
Another blanket.
Is the watch still with you?
I’m still here… A captive to fate
And fate’s plan I stand, barely…
In an endless war with winter,
and smoke, and malformed verses.

Time and again,
I swallow the hours’ incessant ticking,
The singer Najat questions
why.
I sip from the lip
of that one painted cup.
Where do you go next?
And whose side are you on?
Mine, or winter’s?