He fans the embers with a paper plate,
atop the balcony of his remote refuge,
many miles away from the Holy City,
and the surrounding hills are protective cloaks.
I stand in the outskirts of a city,
in a nation behind the scenes,
with a double scotch in one hand,
and a jujeh kabob in the other.
Young women, young men around me, engaged
in a brief episode of unrestrained speech
turn toward the music as it grows louder,
and the balcony becomes our dance floor.
Be Alive! he yells to me, it is in this place
we have built our heaven from hell.