Cigarette Ash

I found a pencil in my pocket
That has been worn down to the nub.
…

It was pale, feeble, and adrift,
Buried
Among cigarette ash and peanut skins.
And so was I,
Aimlessly wandering the streets
As the night spread out against the land and I,
Dark, evil,
And oppressive,
As dark as a million soldiers in raven dress
And unsightly boots
Revelling the night away.
The people, sullen and forlorn,
Trailed along
Like a jilted lover
Or an oppressed soul
Longing for the dawn.
I drifted further into the night with a heavy heart
—For the moon had promised to meet me by the Nile
But she left me stranded—
I searched for her in Haram, I searched in Qalaa and Bulaq,
I left no stone unturned in Imbaba and Warraq,
But she was nowhere to be found.
My eclipsed moon was bleak.
In a blink, I fell from the heavens to Earth,
But the land was also bleak:
Soot blackened the coffeehouses
As radios broadcasted the same old drivel.
Oh, moonless night,
As black as kohl without bright eyes.
…

Back in the day, the moon was as a child of mine,
Covered in down feather like a bird.
Back in the day, she was young, as green and crisp as key lime.
I used to cradle her, then strut across the neighbourhood
And say: “Come and see my dear child.”
“Bless her; she is a good omen!” they would say.
“May she grow up in your grace and good days.”
She grew up, but not in my embrace;
I lost her in a heedless moment.
…

And here I am, aimlessly wandering the streets
As the night weighs long and dark upon the land and I.
I found a pencil in my pocket
So I wrote this song of anguish.