Adam and Hawa

Gingerbread Hawa

7 days to make the bread,

the eyes, the nose and then the head.

14 hours to kneed the body,

the arms and then the legs.
28 minutes to bake in all,

nice and crisp and then wait till cold.





w/n: 
The idea of the act of creation, creating something, putting time and energy and your own days/life into that act. 7 days refers to Allah creating the world and resting, and the 14 refers to the number of hours a person is awake/works/plays. 28 minutes refers to 30 minutes, a way of telling time, half an hour becomes a sign, a marker of what is to come.  
Hawa is Eve's Muslim name, or Arabic equivalent. Both of whom are mentioned in the holy Quran, having been created, Allah took a rib from Adam and created Eve (did that hurt? maybe we should call it rib break and not heartache?), he then taught them how to plant and plow and sow seeds upon the Earth, there is no mention of sin or in the holy book in regards to Hawa. 
Allah taught the first man and woman how to make food, and bread. Bread the staple of a persons diet in any country, it is a common type of food that unites us, chappati from south east asia, breads of brilliant large fluffy and generouse shapes in Africa, to the everyday sliced bread you can find in a supermarket or in Greggs, or great baked sweet and flavour filled breads of Germany and France. 
Yum.

It's not our culture,

I said this once, watching this person,

this young little soul

revel in his clothes, his choice of colour - or lack there of.

And me sounding like a tired adult,

Knowing that I myself,

am not that old,

deep down still a child.

The others snorted at my words, a chuckle of a laugh,

derision or whatever, but it does not matter,

because sooner or later, they will realise, eyes looking in on another scene,

of people who are not like us,

so loud and brash and full of bother,

nonsense to me, I hear their words, but my inner voice, it splutters only why,

why have you got to listen, to hear and put up with

just walk away find somewhere, another.

But where else is there?

this room, so big and yet so small,

my paint, those brushes, those drops

of ink staining the carpet,

running down walls.

And I have words, have thoughts and suggestions and ideas

but out there they are no more than raindrops upon my head,

bouncing off walls, fluttering through ears,

no more or less then ideas and tears.

Maybe this is my world too,

but still no matter,

their culture is not mine,

and yet they wish to share what is,

but they fail to see, to recognise and understand,

they could travel the world of the seven seas,

in ripped jeans, large holes,

crop tops and shorts

and still forget what they see smell or hear, our strife;

their still intoxicated,

and I always see clear.

Like crystal or glass, or the black box of my life.