The power died at sunset, a habitual ghost.
We dragged the rope beds to the yard.
We gathered round the metal tray,
scarred by years of spoons,
And the moon shedding light on the "Ful"
A warm beans in water,
bread shredded into mash,
Glistening with sesame oil, a golden splash.
And chunks of white cheese, salty and harsh—
A feast before we carry on our daily marsh.
I remember the wind, a sudden, cold slap,
Cutting through the heat as we lay in the dark,
Pulling the heavy blanket from my lap,
While the silence left its heavy mark.
Then came the dawn, not with light, but sound—
A single, frantic fly buzzing near my ear,
And the rooster's scream from the neighbor's ground,
Piercing the sleep, making the morning clear.
I walked to the corner, dust on my shoes,
To the man at the tablia, the small wooden stall.
He handed me a loose cigarette—bad news
For the lungs, but needed to stall the withdrawal.
Then the rush for the bus, the iron fight,
Elbows and sweat to claim a plastic seat,
Only to stand when a grandmother came in sight,
Her face a map of the heat and the street.
I reached the hospital.
The air tasted used.
A line of bodies curved out the door,
Trembling with Dengue.
A nurse, too tired to look up,
Whispered the inventory:
"There is no saline left."
Their bones were breaking from the inside.
Eyes wide,
Waiting for fluids that simply did not exist.
Then above the coughing, a TV blared high,
Mounted on a bracket, fuzzy and dry.
The leaders were gathering, punching the sky,
"We are ready!" they shouted, faces turning red.
"The enemy is beneath us! We will stack the dead!
We will fight to the last, until we are gone,
Our people are warriors! The battle is on!"
I looked at the screen, then back at the line,
At the shivering child with a broken spine.
I looked at the "Warriors"
Then I looked back at the screen,
Then came the nurse, looking thin.
Her voice was weary, shaking at the knees:
"The ful is ready, Doctor...
But we have no cheese."