My fingers aren’t made
for strings to strum,
And for all the trite reasons
to slap on a drum;

A hand on the hide makes
it easier to find,
a beat for me to
leave this march behind.

Ummi,

softer than stone

and stronger,

has run between

Safa and Marwa

for as long as

I’ve breathed.

At her feet

gush the springs

of home and hereafter.