and then our exile

it is not too late
and sometimes it is too late

hair blowing in the wind. it hardly matters what your eyes see, your mind is still wrapping itself around these cold, cruel shapes.

my arba'een nawawi dars (sundays and tuesdays, we started last week.) seems to have been cancelled again. as i started off from my house it was snowing, the flakes of white carried up / billowing into my face. i passed children, two beautiful children, they bounded outside and laughed of sheer delight. they clapped their hands at the flakes, they held their tongues out to catch them, they jumped up and down and ran back and forth. i was a little late for the nonexistent class, i walked past them, and as soon as i left the alleyway and was heading down the mountain, the people i passed shivered and braced themselves to the wind, looking down at the ground. the snow became rain, it is the winter here, summers are dust.

as we grow older we kill ourselves. children are alive. i do not think we are. they have nothing to thank us for.