When it happened,
a long time ago,
cheap phone cards meant the world,
and the world was wrapped up in Schiphol;
Phone booths where Easterners' sweat left finger prints on the damaged glass and lingered...
His voice, a restless, sometimes nervous whisper,
questioning his short-term obstacles...small, but looming large, already...
so much like the fluctuations of his sensitive ego...
-'This guy snores, he sleeps on the airport seats...his feet stink!'
-'It's OK. You'll be OK. Just call me before you leave'
-'11 more minutes'...
Aches and time. This summed up his experience.
-'Where is your warm bosom. I cannot cry. They would think I'm not man enough to be alone here.'
No, I guess they won't. They won't know you carried the bloodied limbs of the stone-throwers into their make-shift graves...They won't know you discovered your brother's dried up carcass amidst cyanide fumes...That you escaped the gun shots of rutheless murders after your Palestinian blood...
But you will have my scarf to smell me, and when it's dark and no one can hear you...
You can cry your heart out...For I will be there.
For the first 'love of my life'...
