Luxor
in April
It was the year the tourists stopped coming.
"This stupid war in Iraq,"
as the guide put it.
Empty caleches lined up on shadeless streets,
where the drivers washed at standpipes,
and called "Maybe tomorrow?"
after your retreating back.
If you couldn't give them money,
you could at least encourage them
—you could do that much, couldn't you?
Hey cousin!
Hey my friend!
Hey you look like Egyptian!
The price of anything could be lowered.
Even a shoeshine.
All that was needed was persistence
and a closed heart.
Still, things could be worse.
On the other side of the Nile,
the villagers had no water.
The government turned it off
to force them out,
Believing the village
rested on Middle Kingdom tombs.
For three years now,
they'd been bumping their donkeys down to the river,
laden with jerry cans.
And
(whisper it quietly)
digging.
Thoughts dissolved in the heat,
lost themselves down narrow streets,
blew away with the dust.
Karnak was very big,
very old,
there was possibly a lot of it missing.
It was too hot for insight or context.
The room rates went down
The pound went down
The Nile went down
Only the sunsets hadn't depreciated.
They were still gold,
no orange or red anywhere.
Only quiet gold light, on the Corniche,
on the wooden shutters of the Winter Palace,
behind Theban hills.
And gold on the water,
where the feluccas, sails filled,
slid past towards morning.
Copyright © 2003 Mithran Somasundrum