Concealment and Turmoil

Yemenat

Ahmed Saif Hashed

I was a man of concealment, Hayfa’a. I buried the searing longing deep in a sorrowful fissure at the bottom of a well. I entrusted my secret to the dark, far from the eye of the sun. I held my breath lest the wind scatter it, and I crushed the cries of pain rising from my soul. I hid love in my innermost depths and lived drained of strength. However strong I appeared — like the concrete of a high tower, like the bedrock of a mountain — suppressed love, Hayfa’a, breaks every defense. Your love is my first secret, sealed in the darkness, known only to me, beyond the sight of any watcher.

I was closed off, resistant to confession. I would not entrust my secret even to my shadow. Not even death could wrest a sliver from it. Only the grave, once sealed, would hold it if death came for me. Yet its concealment crushed me, Hayfa’a— ground me like pulp beneath merciless hooves, like flesh beneath the sharpest blades. The locked secret gnawed at me like a saw; my resolve crumbled like sawdust devoured by flame. Incomplete love, Hayfa’a, seethes and rages inside me like a volcano.

Two years of this love, Hayfa’a, and they have brought me to the threshold of sixty. In silence I chew my disappointments from every direction. I try to hide from you the confusion in my eyes, yet your eyes see and do not understand. Mad longing sets fire to my veins; a hawk thrashes inside my chest, caged between ribs consumed by flame.

This half-love swept me away against my will, Hayfa’a. I cloaked myself in secrecy, withdrew behind walls of solitude. To confess in a love borne by one alone is shame — a trampling