The Gypsy

Azza Hassan from Gaza:

A gypsy of beginnings,
Unbound by direction,
Her hair is
A forest unleashed from the wind’s grasp,
Learning from the trees
How to love resilience.
Around her neck, she places
A circle of salvation
Colorless,
Transforming
When night approaches
And when day remembers its name.

Jasmine
Does not guide her steps,
But apologizes to her
Each time she passes.
In her bosom,
Ancient copper
Preserves the warmth of her first fingers,
And at her extremities,
A dove,
Weighed by waiting, became a white shadow
That does not fly.
From a fabric that knows no wear and tear, she wove her Kufic shawl,
And from her presence,
The moon shone
As if it had learned light late.

Her voice
Is not an ordinary voice,
It is the lullaby of memory
When it soothes its wound,
The birds sing
Without knowing why. In June
— When time grieves —
And hearts beat
To an ancient rhythm,
And love ascends
Barefoot to the meadows.
There
Was a boy
The color of shyness,
With eyes yet unawakened
He bent over the last line
And did not write her name,
But left a mark
Resembling home
When it is hidden in the heart
And leaves a scar
A deep, gaping scar
That spreads its pain in the ribs
And spreads across the body
For the soul to follow
It prevents it from yearning and revealing