Thick embroidery and circle shaped little mirrors spinning around me - this vast skirt of memories. It stretches to before my life began.

My body inside it doesn't own this dress; I am only the nexus between two universes.

The cloth doesn't belong to me. It belongs to old woman hands and years of childhood weaving. My feet upon hard ground of unknown languages and books.

I dance in a room of women sitting, of hands clapping, for one night to forget. My mirrors reflect smiling faces and deep drawn lines of experience.

Round and round I spin.

My mirrors reflect distance and time and snow topped sharp mountain peaks, threatening to pierce the sky.

Colossal metaphors of strength, which decrease in size with distance, as I gaze out of the aircraft window.

Just like their waving farewell expressions, fading into nothing, out of the taxi rear-view.

Another anthem of love and devotion measured by nostalgic sighs and glances.

I resume my dance and so do you.

They strum a Sufi chant of wine and bridal comings. Each little mirror immortalizes for an instance, an impression - a story upon each face. There is nothing behind these eyes, or those, or yours - faint ghosts of tears now dried and gone.

Of husbands wounded on the first day of Ramazan three years ago, or else missing amongst the rubble last week.

She wore this gown in a time of peace and loving.

What did these mirrors reflect, in that time of art and poetry and romance amongst the gardens?

My mirrors reflect each breath inside their chests drawn with hardship and a stab of regret for those who are absent. They make tight-lipped conversation contemplating death and life in one blink.

We are the brave and courageous and filled with honor and pride, never invaded, never conquered - they cry - time to pick up the pieces of mother history and her Buddha artifacts.

My little mirrors reflect patriotic speeches and lost stories in the crumbling rubble. |