Another Wednesday,
I park my car near her gate,
Sahira calls her three friends and
they laugh at me.
Their faces half-hidden under veils,
one of them tells her son to wait.
Putting their busy day at halt,
they turn towards me:
Denim jacket, Roadster pants,
a chain with a butterfly hanging
on my neck,
the black baseball cap covering
parts of my fringes;
Look at the girl dressed like a man,
Sahira says.
The mockery in their eyes, a mirror,
it makes me sad.
How much of the world have they
hidden from them? I wonder again.
