the irony of course is not the women,
not the liberation, not the oppression,
nor the men policing them either,
but it’s the sand.
the connectedness of this dry and pale backdrop,
which I don’t know if the artist meant,
but I also don’t know if people realise.
Men, dry from the moisture of comprehension,
but wet behind the ears,
still oblivious to the idea,
that they don’t own other men,
especially other women.
and despite our outward appearance,
we haven’t evolved anywhere in the world,
dogmatic or pragmatic,
oh they love the words,
both pride themselves on arbitrary definitions.
what kind of wombs bore you,
i wonder if they deplore you,
would you police your mothers too,
would you still hold the same view?
if it were your mother that was dressed,
would you still feel the need to oppress?
what the world would look like if right from the start,
women were just left alone,
how much more would we as a civilisation,
This arid backdrop is the wasteland of what we have become,
of two images of things that can’t be undone,
both burned into our retinas,
by women’s sons, under the sun.
Art by Khalid Albaih