Steam rising from my cup—

searched the morning sky

for traces of man’s anger.

I am searching for the rocket trails

where war made the canvas of heaven 

its accomplice.

I know this sky—its familiarity,

confirmed by the constellational

constance of Dummiyah. 

I played beneath the same stars

beside my Bedouin friends

with nana and honey in our cups.

Now here, in the Far East my Matcha

tastes less Persian than it did before.

And the Sakura has not yet come—

Completely.

This cup of tea travels to Iran tomorrow,

perhaps a Persian will smell Jasmine

Under the same Dummiyah—

Note: Reflecting on the world as it sits this morning from Japan that shares the same skies as Iran.