There are talks of time that has come, and time that has stretched beyond its time. My stay was one (they said). I nurtured the illusion of home but had none. The expanse lay like the limitless boundaries of an unwritten poem and yet none, not an inch in this wide landscape could house my home.
My brother is indignant at my anger that follows me like a cloud and spits from my throat like fire, it must have burn some. But he is just a man, a mere man, would he know how it is to live as if in the fluid surface of water, not knowing on waking where my windows would open to? They who gouged out my heart are indignant at my anger, they who are eloquent of their homeland are indignant that a woman wants a piece of earth to hold close to her bosom.
Don’t ask me to begin anew from a room emptied for my intrusion. This time I will carve from my skin and bones a house of my own. It will speak to me alone. It will be wrapped in mud and cowdung, scented blue smoke of mekrup will emanate from the porch. The moon would rest for awhile –on my pond of blue lilies. I will begin to love the dusty wind-blown lanes that lead to my solitary house. I will allow none within its walls for they will slowly uproot me, surely they will bring in their beloved and their off springs and I will be relegated into an unlived corner. No, not one will uproot me, not even love. I will not love something so mere, so meagre and yet sinister beyond imagination as a human being. I will dig a shallow grave and when the time comes I will rest and cover myself for eternity with a blanket of dried blue lilies.