In Sana’a

Yemenat 

Waleed Sanad

In Sana’a,

light does not dwell in lamps.

It slips out from the breaths of the oppressed,

from the trembling of a hand searching for bread,

from the story of a laborer wiping dust off the face of the sidewalk before sitting beside his tools.

In (Al-Sabeen),

the street stretches out its hand to the crowds

as though begging for a pulse

from bodies that have forgotten they are alive.

(Al-Misbahi)

carries no light, despite what its name claims.

It passes like a thick shadow,

mapping itself across the forehead of the city.

(Al-Safiyah)

is heaps upon heaps of scrap metal,

and its name is merely an elegant accusation

for containing the ( cafeteria Mudhish)

and the stories of (Taha Al-Janad.)

In Sana’a…

the dead

are not in the graveyards.

They are on the buses,

staring into the void

with eyes that know their way

to nothingness.

There is no traffic light whose greenness they await

so they may cross,

nor do they realize that life has granted them

one more minute of waiting in the crush of noon traffic.

Everything in it

breathes in severed breaths.

Life is sold in installments,

and the soul burns little by little.

I said to the wind:

Tell the city to sleep,

tell it not to trouble us with these dreams soaked in fear.

I said to the darkness:

Have mercy on us.

We are not thieves of light.

We are the children of longing,

searching for a glimmer that will not betray us.

I returned home after all these foolish dialogues

to follow the news of the war,

cholera,

and other things that do not concern you.

From the collection The Last Hairstyle of Darkness