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.