Twice, we’ve been to the desert now
– the place that turned people into providers, poets, prophets.
These bordering countries are at war with each other,
and have been for so long,
in the name of their grandparents and Gods.

He and I, we are not in the middle;
nothing exists beyond the hatred and dust.
On both sides, women are veiled, institutional oppression worshipped
and human rights compromised,
and severely so.

Two thousand years ago, a massive rock concealed the irritation, the interruption.
Two generations ago, an entire people was almost eradicated for privilege’s sake.
Today, more newcomers than ever simply seek refuge and rest from war.

So as we stroll down these boulevards,
as the sun sets yet again,
his curls and calm
besides my blond bun and vehement vigor
still reminisce about the harmony that human diversity will always lack
– as far as we know anyway.

Then the bus stops.
My rosary winds down.
And we’re off to that garden
where one once
made the waking superb.

There is always another option
– under the premise of humility.
It knows no power, no prestige.
It grows in the shadow of death
and of the hope
that never knows and only
dies at last.