Lights that were suddenly switched on. Sweat and blended. A raindrop glistened. Their voices were full of green geometric terraces. White banners across blue skies that kissed eyes. Terraces that opened into the Arab sea with quiet deep swimming fish.

Men died to make her theirs. Their blood spilled over her white dress. The last name they uttered was hers. One fine morning in Sana`a, she rose to make dreams come true. She was crowned and throned

for making the mountains part

for making the oceans part

Her name was Revolution. The storms turned into a clear blue sky and - Freedom.

Freedom shone as grape leaves after the monsoon rains. Danced as date palms leaves in spring storm. Tasted like coffee with cardamom and tea with spices. Raisins did not get stuck in the throat. And almonds melted on the tang. Cotton leaves sung. Tobacco leaves went wild. All were swept in a scrambled swirling. Their Mokha coffee colored mind in the sky beyond.

They themselves were like date palms, their heads as fire and legs in water. Each tree, each cloud in a starless sky in spring thunder were tuned into the storm music. Alabaster oil lamps were lighting the night. Kissed cheeks.

Lights that were suddenly switched on. Sweat and blended. A raindrop glistened. Their voices were full of green geometric terraces. White banners across blue skies that kissed eyes. Terraces that opened into the Arab sea with quiet deep swimming fish.

That year they had one harvest instead of two.

The smell of incense, loneliness, clouds, despair all arrived unexpected – . Ornamental garden wilted and died. Their shiny clothes and thick gold earrings. A small country with familiar landscape. In the absence of words and emptiness in eyes. They watched taxis come and go. At a single traffic light

They watched governments come and go in colors of the dark.

A raindrop glistened. Their voices were full of green geometric terraces. There are things that can be forgotten and things that cannot. How they stood alone in empty field turmoil. Their faces in the heaven and recited the Book of Life. Like children sheltering from a storm. It seemed too far away now, the Arab sea. The geometric terraces too few.

That year they had one harvest instead of two.

The air was quiet except for the air.

Hearts were beating, but they beat alone.

Irena Knehtl
Sana`a, Yemen
irenaknehtl@gmail.com