The day I heard about the virus
was probably normal.
And some kept it cool.
But I was just there;
on a long ride home,
or towards my art class.
Panicking or not-panicking,
my limbs still carried
what’s left of bone and flesh in me.
My head’s dissolving into thoughts;
What is gonna happen?
Is the world collapsing?
It feels like apocalypse.
Mom sitting on the sofa;
to the sound of thunder,
She’s pursing her lips.
She could be worried about my brother.
Or how the rest of the money would keep us going
for the rest of the month.
Tv is on but no one is actually listening.
It just brings us together:
me, my mom, and my brother.
It’s on the news.
A tempest is coming to eat up
what we have left of our dignity,
to uncover our vulnerability
and make us long for a drop of water from the tap,
or perhaps some light a bit stronger than a candle flicker.
Yet, here we are;
Completely bare and naked.
Let the storm hit our frail walls.
Let our safety be jeopardized.
And our dreams be on pause.
Let the howling wind steal our bones to water a new soil.
Let’s just be silent for a moment:
For the world
has a place for us to fill.
Asma is an Egyptian poet based in Cairo, Egypt. Her poetry revolves around spiritual awakening, resilience, and marginalised voices. Through her own endeavours, she has held a few live performances in downtown Cairo since 2017.