picture from the movie Bab Aziz


perhaps this magnetic pull to other continents,
this incessant desire to travel abroad,
is our ancestral calling,
their bones finally sprouting in trees,
winds blowing past their branches,
carrying with them a voice,
to whisper into our ear,
and echo into our soul,

“come, come near,
we are waiting for you,
do not fear.”

And the pot boils,
the stories it has eavesdropped on,
atop the frail branches,
collected from a days toil.

The pot boils,
water for nightly elixir,
cinnamon, and bartered sugar blocks,
lemongrass from wild growth.

The pot boils like my belly,
aching for a morsel,
not of mutton, nor bread,
but taste my forefathers forehead,
on the lips of my longing,
reconcile my belongings.

Alchemist of souls,
the desert calls,
I know you’ll find me,
with the hosting of nobility,
perhaps, a metaphor,
my belly aching for emptying,
so my soul can soar.

The desert my rib cavity,
the fire sticks my bones,
and all along,
this longing for travel,
is a turning inward,
find my ancestors waiting,
and arrive home.


Please watch this video, which inspired this poem.
Whilst tempting to find scientific approximations on who I am and my background, they will always be approximations. The reality is that in spite of my actual backgrounds, the urges I have, the calling to other countries, to other land, to other people comes from a deep attachment within and conviction beyond what labs can offer me.
When I so choose to join the reins of the brave nomads of the world and leave this abode of confine we are so programmed to nestle in, I will  wander about wherever my soul leads me to.
I’ve mastered most of my internal flight, the simulator has been overworked, it’s time soon to cut the ties and set flight.

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