Dawn

Like a night owl I am perched up on the balcony, watching the never sleeping city stir beneath me, flowing traffic of red break lights in the distance, I catch the final rays of the moon’s light as she disappeared behind the clouds in an instance.

The east lays right before my vision, hills on the horizon as the dewdrops on the rooftops gleam and glisten, the bird songs tune my soul to listen, as an airplane flies by causing a moments distraction, the sky begins to burn with solar fire, amber skies push away the darkness and in this frozen time for mere seconds I find solace.

Breakfast on the table tea and cereal, murals pasted on the morning papers, ears clued to the news, one dimensional and conflicted views, infernos scorch my realm, I float in the space of my own making like a phantom, the oppressive tinder regimes ignite and burn, western politicians suddenly illustrate concern.

On the gates of freedom the people converge and come, lives lost to tyrant pawns in the possession of a gun, yet the people finally breath, inhale and exhale beneath the African sun, chest full of conviction, hands raised in resistance, eyes darkened by grief yet glow with belief, I stand ridged in deliberation, from example I learn, awaiting my day of reckoning, awaiting my turn.

Once again I look for dawn, her tender welcome accompanied by her ever changing scent, I recall the feeling induced by her absences, once more we met on my balcony, her rays venture slowly towards me seeking embrace, from the warmth of her touch my heart begins to race, it is at this moment that I miss the queen of my family, the woman who gave birth to me.

To witness such a spectacle I thank my creator, I make my pray and ask for my head to be kept above the water, I wish never to drown in weakness and surrender, onto the madness of the day I venture, attracting the confused women, swearing that their senses I have stolen, questioning whether I carry I bad omen, I seek no slave to live in submission, I search for a muslima to embellish in appreciation.

I don’t dabble in the art of confusion, and I hold no facts to my chest unless its proven, the days of playing the victims are long forgotten, today’s slaves in chains to oil merchants like those that use to pick the master’s cotton, the human spirit is something that may be weakened but never broken, mama Africa shows the world another valuable lesson.

I hunger for my turn and I whisper my frustration to dawn, she looks at my with her burning centre and my eyes shy away from her gaze, like her every morning freedom is born in the despot’s maze, as she climbs to the heavens ever higher, I marvel at her form, whether the sun shone or the winds carried a storm, before everything there Is always a dawn.   

Hamza Egal © copyright 2011 all rights reserved.