Amidst the dew
And soup-thick humidity,
The sounds of roosters and people waking.
The muezin calls his people to prayer,
In a land devoid of color.
There, in the distance, is a yellow house;
The only color among miles of brown.
A woman comes out.
She cleans a mat and tends to her chores,
In poverty,
In filth.
She is so unlike me.
But there!
On the roof
Of the small yellow house.
Is a fiddler.
A man and his fiddle, sitting on the roof.
He fiddles away the morning,
With the tune of donkeys and cattle, goats and hens,
As the people come and go,
Doing their things,
Waiting for a better life.
He fiddles, she cleans.
The rooster welcomes the morning.
In an instant,
The fiddler dissapears.
But she is still there.
And so is her yellow house,
Surrounded by dirt,
In a land devoid of color.
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