Guest contribution by Hoda Mounir


And when it hits, it hits hard, the storm inside.

I feel finished, exploited, used

to the last drop of my soul.

Like a mine with all the gold gone, stolen in the storm

and few pebbles remain.

Unwanted pebbles scattered

Simply, they don’t shine.

No water to wash them, clean them to look nice.

Do I need to wrap my soul with a shiny shawl?

To keep it shining, to keep it warm?

Worn out whatever I do  

and waiting endlessly for a spark.

I take the pebbles big and small

Put them together as I wait

First time I notice they are of different colors

That match as they group together

Into what seems to be a perfect image of me.