The ground—hard, yet soft and mushy
much like my heart on many days.
The sun shines bright,
Its kindness a matter of chance and fortune.
I stand here, facing the tennis court
and strike the yellow balls:
back,
forward,
left,
right; a sharp stroke,
an overhead smash.
So many stories
flowing behind these strokes;
Those quieter moments,
that yellow silk garment upon me
fluttering against my skin;
The sun delights in this moment.
Those wild, tumultuous moments—
the sound of tanks, helicopters,
oh, the sound of weeping,
screams,
a war-torn night in Kabul;
Russian soldiers—lean, with green eyes and cold faces—
I stare straight ahead.
The balls, yellow,
round,
like that dream I once had:
Two golden oranges sprouting from my chest.
My mother would say: \"Quick, cover them up;
It is shameful for a girl to be beautiful on such dusty ground.\"
I smile, a feverish stir within.
I strike the yellow ball;
It soars, high over the net, again and again.