oI lived in Damascus, and that was wrong.
Though it was a gift; I was surely too young,
To understand how close windows utter love from beyond dust,
Or to own friends everywhere with a simple smile of trust,
With men and women at entrances and shy beauty behind windows with curious eyes;
Or in indoors shouts of children and criticism of the old, tricky and wise,
Or to love a city, silent walls and stones among the rest,
To watch those long walls facing north and stretching west,
Looking upon streets beside the river,
Which reflects the moonbeams and a shadow of a lover;
To see virgin Mary standing at the door of the cathedral always clothed in white and blue,
While her son inside, pierced in legs and hands blending with love atmospbere waiting for you;
Though not far in the mosque, a verse resonates that he was raised to heaven, not touched, in perfect health;
While the jews in the neighbourhood reject both tales, and gather their wealth,
In Damascus I lived, loved and believed all tales; even those not polished,
For a purpose, I guess, I lived in a room with a window without a curtain,
To see light and dark and incredibly be wrong to suppose being wrong for certain.

© jamalbbd 2023
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critique and comments welcome.
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