Glances Past Her Niqab

I see her often,

In the morning metro.

She sits in a corner

And keeps a book for company.

Leaning upon the side rest

Pouring into her book

She loses sight of the world.

Unaware of my lingering gaze.

She knows me not

Nor do I,

Her reverie is the book

Mine is her eyes.

Mornings outside change their hue

In her hands the book changes form

But like satin black foliage of an evergreen tree

Her obstinate hijab holds her face in a constant company.

Her veil is black

Her eyebrows too

Muddy is the color of those eyes.

Muddy my heart with longing.

My morning eyes expend themselves

Gazing at her

Her hidden face puckers

In a black blush of shame

It's a pastime really

Nothing serious.

Let me be clear

She knows me not and I've seen her never

Every morning I watch her fixedly

Intently, deeply

And make an effort

To unravel her.

She's a mysterious woman

She wears a veil to work.

The metro bench is cold

Cold is the phony world around.

But black is warm

It is plain and honest, and naked.

Every morning

I admire her warmth

And try to prise away with my eyes

That satin veil off her face.

I let her eyes lead the way,

And my heart, an inkless pen

Draws the contours,

Gives a form to her

Fed by imagination

Pushed by a curious itch

With the knowledge of a feature stark

I create a face to fit

A face to fit two muddy eyes

A face to elate a muddy heart

A face to replace a veil dark

A face to misplace the world in.

Every morning, she is the same hue of black

Every morning I paint her a face

Every morning the colors change

Every morning I'm discontent of my work.

It's a good pastime

From the seeds of eyes I give birth to a woman.

The day is grey

Outside, grey clouds have rolled in.

Big cold drops, colorless, hop around

And scared birds crouch in their nests.

She walks in the metro

Dripping wet.

Her wet garb sweeping the floor

Her satin veil clutching her face.

She sits down gingerly

Then looks around

And unaware of my prying eyes

Unstrings her veil.

Black silk fingers

Fortress impregnable

Crumble in her lap

My eyes, the invader, march through

Her face matches her eyes

Perfectly, like a venerable jigsaw.

A face to hold in sight and sigh

A face unlike I had painted ever.

It's beautiful

But I'm disappointed.

Why?

I wonder

Perhaps beauty is in the mystery of her face

In the hidden folds of her public skin

In the warmth of the unknown black.

In the infatuation of my curious gaze.

Now that she is visible

It is different

My gaze is not so penetrating

The longing in my heart not so deep.

The next day she walks in again

Clad in the black of anonymity

My eyes glance towards her

Follow her to the seat

But they refuse cooperation

Refuse to color her veil in a different shade

Refuse to give birth to a woman different

Refuse to satiate my longing.

I don't notice her anymore in the morning.

Her mystery is dead.