Gibran Khalil Gibran Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Gibran Khalil Gibran

She moves
She walks, back and forth
As she has; for some days now
Small, petite, soldier cut hair, oriental, she is in black parka
She is unlike others; wearing for summer
Her hoody hangs from behind
In her worn out face, in her look and in her walks there is something; unknown, undeclared
It must be the cause, it must be the reason; hanging somewhere, hidden from the eye, but where?
Where, in her heart, in her mind or in her kangaroo pouch?
She never holds a bag, never reads in the library, just walks, sometimes cowboy-like a toothpick,
Sometimes sits
Her bag, the air sickness one, folded and white; possibly from her escapes flight,
Then, she must have happily nauseated; vomited the boredom of dictatorship for freedom
She is like the blind I know, playing with straw, with fork or with spoon; bending them.
She kills, each time she passes.
Not romantically, not with beauty nor aesthetically
But with the fire that she is tinder of; and the pain
Just pain of "What is her pain? "
Pain of "Is she a mental? "
Pain of "Is she abandoned, why and how? "
Pain of curiosity being fire under the ash of shyness
She is unlike him, the man whose long grey hair is tied behind him, wearing checkered shorts
She is unlike the security man in grey and black with his walkie-talkie making noise
She is unlike those who are deeply in their studies for the upcoming exams.
She is who she is, she is duplicate of the Hazareh man in prison; he never said "I am Afghan."
I wonder if any of them is aware, are they all unaware of their past, present, history and future...?
Sufi Gibran, you answer.