Though I know the rustling of the newspaper
cannot be heard above the crumbling
of a bombed out street, I can let myself hope
the soothing strains of violins and woodwinds
drifting across my garden might carry the distance
over lines drawn in the sand, smooth them over,
erase their every trace with peace.

On this bootless day in a garden where fuchsia reigns
over yellow cups and white bells of honeysuckle
my thoughts may turn to colors,
bare feet in air-cooled grass,
the soothing swing of laundry on the line.

Still I can hope for a cease fire amid the rubble of towns and lives.
A moments breath to remember the scent of roasting lamb,
the peppered sweetness of mango in curry.
The luxury of an idle day.

The resonance of the Muezzin’s call to prayer – Azan,
the first call to a new day.