Pronounced with a غ

stumbling from

the back of the tongue

and the top of the throat


like a gentle gurgle

of water flowing from

the Tigris

in silt heavy swirls

that find themselves

lost on the edges of banks.


From the tips of our tongues

we pile the memories

and stack them like the bricks

of homes we left behind,

now filled with solitude.


With our cardamom scented teacups

neatly tucked in dust laden



we sit here,

always looking back


to a city

rooted in centuries,

withstanding conquerors

and battles,

occupied and liberated,


just patient enough to hold us all


with all the colours of our skins,

with all our unbelievable beliefs,

with all our madness and exhilaration


holding us together

in gardens enclosed with gardenia bushes,

around tables of gossip and laughter,

through streets that never sleep,

on a river of candles bound with wishes.