Saffron City Press

Roaa Eid

Cairo, Egypt

They shout, “We made the desert green!” 
and pat their backs in enthusiasm. 
“The canvas has been painted,” they cry. “The seed has been planted.”

The ground has been upturned.
The peace has been shattered. 

For who would want the desert green 
after seeing the dunes dancing?
Who would call the grains a wasteland
upon hearing the wind strumming
strings of lights captured in amber?

Can they not see how the wind carves mountains,
how the sand sculpts hills and faces?

Do they not feel the sun touch skin,
painting us the colour of the granules?

Can they only hear silence,
deafening,
and not the winds whispering
songs of the past, present, and tomorrow?

Do they think the infinite sands
from the infinite rocks
from the infinite number of years gone by
have no texture, have no pulse? 

Can they only taste ash and dirt on their tongues
and not the sighs of lives and peoples long passed?

No, I do not think you understand. 

The desert is not green, but it is a thousand ways the sun bends light across the eye. 
The ground is not littered with leaves, but a cascade of sands as many as the galaxies in the heavens, or even more, or even less. 
The trees do not bear heavy fruit, but the gales carry life, precious and eternal, to a patient blue neighbour. 

For how can you have a sea of salt without a sea of sand?

No, I do not think you understand. 

Do not speak to me of scorching heat;
did you forget the moon visits us too?

When you cry for the desert to bloom, 
I think of how sad it must be
that you have never stood
beneath the ivory desert moon. 

You have not stood
—a stepping stone—
at the very edge of the horizon’s embrace,
blending man, heaven, and earth,
merging heart, wind, and sky,
becoming one with the sands and stars. 

You have not looked out at the expanse
—the great cosmic mound.
You have not laid down among the layers of stories and sand. 
You have not sunk into this earth like a soft summer song. 
You have not slept with the voices of the angels,
playing a lullaby,
a memory, 
a wondrous hidden sound. 

No, I do not think you understand. 

Do not speak to me of trees;
we have no use for bars on a cage. 

For when you are standing in the desert, 
you are laying your soul bare,
you are spilling your blood raw,
you are filling your heart heat.

You are seen. You are known. 
You can see. You can know. 

And our mysteries ring true under the mounds of rising dunes,
where our djinn all gather to dance and sing and play music,
wondering,
praying, 
fearing, 
for that soul stuck in green
who sees neither sun nor sky
nor ground 
nor the intimate touch of the horizon. 

No, I do not think you understand. 

Do not speak to me of mirages.
We know them well enough. 
We know the taste of dangling jewels at our fingertips.
We know that no one can save this but us. 

But what you don’t know is that a mirage is a looking glass. 
We run straight to it
as Hajjar ran to her mountains, her Safaa, her Marwa.

We search for this mirror in the distance where
the sun kisses the sand,
the mind plays a sound, 
the soul knows life everlasting. 

We are lost. 
We are found. 
We are hidden. 
We are unbound. 

No, I do not think you understand. 

Do not speak to me of oasis,
when you seem to believe
that the desert should be filled with forests and orchards and streams.  

You don’t understand that 
a date palm can only fit 
in the palm of my hand
when rivers of sand sift between my fingers. 

You don’t understand that
in our deserts,
where palm trees stand,
divinity’s hand stirs,
and prophecies rise. 

You don’t understand that 
our wells spring forth
under the feet of mothers.
Gifts are brought to you. 
Hearts are born in you. 

Because what are precious stones, green emeralds, sapphires blue,
without an abundant golden treasure to bury them with?

You seek to make the desert green,
we will keep close the rest of the infinite colors it holds. 

Roaa Eid is a researcher, writer, and poet based in Egypt, with a BA in English Literature and an MA in Medieval Studies. She started writing when she was twelve years old and realized words and fiction made great friends during lonely teenage years. Her work will soon be available in Dark Waters Vol.2 Anthology. She likes to explore the real, the impossible, the emotional —ultimately, what makes humans question everything.