The Arabs Denied My Birth

I left the world of Aden,

The clay I was born from,

Drops of youth scattered in front of me,

When Arabs failed to recognize me,

Pearls of Jumeirah stooped high,

I did not lose ken of my wheat skin,

Putting my palms on my forehead,

Honoring the flag white, green, and red.

My blood revels into millions of shades,

Hunting from the safari to the sky,

Making me look older than my age,

A gift that my land and I exchanged.

Peeling my eyes open wide,

The sky cried into bonds of pallet,

While it's snowing in the lawn,

Letting people know who was born.

Enveloped in a blindfold,

I cried when I heard your name,

My spine started to sore,

A sign I can’t hold it anymore.

The baby who died of your hands,

Having the distorted visions of Arabs,

And the midriff of the gold unstuck,

I still hold the sentiments of luck.

I visited safari in my hopes,

I sobbed in the terminal,

Pilgrims seeing me as a disgrace,

I know, I was united to my place,

Like a mother with her belly-baby,

The long lost illusions seemed true,

When I visited my dear Deira,

The sand and cactus in Tierra.

Hailing me to come to its place,

To pardon for the years of disinheriting,

To pardon for the years of cry,

But I don’t forgive anyone left alike.

Thy son of Arab!

Your land is mine,

And mine is yours,

We live in each’ lore.

Oh, bahar-e-Arab Oh,

You’re my one and only,

Even if you deny me each time,

The battle is worth every dime.

All the sundry loves going there,

But I don't.

I want to touch it, bow down to it,

But I cannot.

I want to tell everyone that it’s my country,

But I won’t.

I am no one,

Just a failed Arab,

Writing this poetry,

My tears get vapored,

Before it falls.

I’ll come back,

I’ll make you relive for denying me,

Pine for denying my existence,

Years apart distance to distance.

Oh Arab, I am one of yours,

Don’t do this to me,

Please accept me,

Please accept me.

Context:

The above story revolves around how my life changed because Arabs failed to accept my birth. Now I'm living in a different part of the world, not the Middle-east.

But, life… yes, life has many people like us. Some get to explain their stories, and some don't. I’ve learned to stop caring about what life did to me…and instead, think about what I am doing with my life.

Life is poetry… and if you are writing that, you know you are giving a thumbs-up to life.

“There are many things you can lie your way through; poetry is not one of them.” ― Nicole Lyons