Hijab Poem by Artchil Daug

It was Thursday when I woke up dying
to feel the conundrum of your shadow
that hide away beneath that cloth swaying
curtains that cover an open window.

A pale face smiled growing weary inside
you, a prisoner of that forgotten war
seeking freedom in the rustic wayside
from sand storms wreaking havoc from afar.

Put away that mask and show me vigor,
learn from the actors of the old theaters
who lost their impulse in the script's rigor
but retained sound mind as their heart flutters.

Life is not a dress worn to please the gods
nor texts written by those few desert sods.