Visit by Egyptian Musicians

This silence
is like pebbles falling on concrete,
slow dry cracks
coming from nowhere.
There is so much room for time.

Like the slow drip
from a drying puddle
into a pond,
no one can really speak
to be personal with strangers.

But there are tears forming,
not drying fast enough.
How many moist words
do we need
in an arid place?