Why is love in our city
contraband and counterfeit?
We snatch at promises through chinks in the door
and have to beg for letters
or for little scrolls
Why in our city
do they shoot down feelings as they shoot down birds?
Why are we like base metal?
What is left of a man if he is base metal?
Why are we two-faced about our thoughts and feelings?
mundane, underhanded, afraid of the light and the sun?
Why are the people of our city
torn apart by contradictions?
For in their waking hours
they curse braided hair and they curse skirts
and when night enfolds them
they embrace nude pictures.

~Nizar Qabbani, from “Diary of an Indifferent Woman”

I re-posted this from a friend’s blog, because it struck a chord.