Chamomile blossoms
grow between paving stones.
Veiled women
gather the plants to brew
while fresh lemons
hang on the other side
of the walled city.
A girl head-shawled
in her own black hair
curses the lack
of grass, fruit and water.
She enters the house
and pours herself
a cup of morning tea --
some sugar stirred in
with more idleness.
There is no work, no taste
on behalf
of the other half
for her almond colored hands.
Their gift of dexterity.
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