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Thursday, February 10, 2011

Egyptian Sunrise

Athens, Georgia
February 8, 201; revised April 23, 2014
A memory of Egypt, May 1982. Dedicated to the youth of Egypt.

Forgive me Amal, not knowing     
your name, but it could not
arise in our improvised
game, that two-penny drama
played three decades past

When we came to
Upper Kingdom elegance,
peers of a genteel breed
served thick bitter coffee
in tiny cups with a side
of sugar. Such a gracious land

Of ruins and restaurants
fallucas on the Nile, sunsets
deep red with the dust of Sahara.
Of gentle dawns by slow waters 
lapping riverbank reeds 
where slave women once hid
baskets from Pharaoh’s baleful
gaze. The Pharaoh’s eyes

Still gaze unblinking
as he worships the gray
god Stability, secured
with burnt offerings –
the soul of a kingdom
locked down and torn
by the call of the dollar
and the call of the muezzin

In a mean land of dirt
and bribes, where swarms
of flies sip tears about
the soft brown eyes
of passive babes, born
to lives of hustling squalor.
Of grade school entrepreneurs
  
Like you, Amal, rude son
of the Lower Kingdom,
your dark eyes discerning
where an impulse to kindness
might be mobilized to sustain

Another day trolling tourists,
trading dignity for dollars
on dry sandstone bluffs
where must-see monuments
mark slow millennia
above the sprawl of Cairo.

You latched to us like desert flies
and even though we meant you
well, my bride and I could brook
no urge to mount tame camels
and make cheap postcards
to please people back home.
So we tipped you a bit to be
on your way, but please 

And no are just weak
bids, and kind rejection
signals softness to sons
of Egypt, ever working
the tourist for just a bit
more. Dignity is a divide,
and no do-overs can bridge
culture and time. In the end

Amal, what is a pyramid
but a large pile of rock
burdened with too much
history? And what is man
that Thou art mindful of him?
Of you, Amal. Even you.

So if I could return
I would take you aside,
buy you bitter coffee,
the sweetest bread
and know a new soul,
both yours and my own.

I had not then read
Les Mis, or surely
would have recognized
le brun petit Gavroche,
so charming on the page,
but God help the mighty

When you turn your attention
from tourist to master
and meet the gaze of Pharaoh.
Did I see your son in Tahrir
Square, standing with the young
elite? Was that your girl
who turned a bronze cheek

To reclaim the honor
of Egypt? Dream big,
Amal, but know the score
pathways to liberty
are negotiated on the back
of tigers that care not

For your dreams.
They leave youthful
bodies, empty fathers
and hollow mothers
who nevermore live
whole. So be whole
Amal, bold child

Of the human tribe.
May we meet once
more on the trembling
bridge that links time
and faith. Let me
shake your hand
this time around.

3 comments:

  1. Jennifer Drago, author of the book "A Thousand and One Egyptian Nights - An American Christian's Life Among Muslims" recently told me that the name "Amal" means "Hope," and that is what Egyptians are experiencing now. I recommend her book for those interested in learning about daily life in Egypt.

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  2. I remember the children; only different faces, places and times in Vietnam, 1971. I often wonder what happened to them. In spite of their environment, they were always smiling. That handshake would be nice... or maybe one of those smiles. Stan

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  3. Bob, of all the poems you read during your feature, this one stuck with me the most. It's truly beautiful.

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