Where I'm From Poem
I am from an exotic new world where fish is valued as priceless gold,
and vast sailing vessels carry goods to far away countries unknown.
Markets and merchants come together and rare goods are sold,
where the color purple was created and fine glass works are blown.
I am from the spicy aroma of cinnamon and the salty ocean air,
where in the kitchen an open aired oven bakes sweet barely cake.
The musty smell of a well turned garden under a servants care,
sears the lamb for the evening meal and prepares the figs to bake.
I am from the flavor of sweet pomegranates and old aged wine,
from the land of milk and honey, warm porridge with the rising sun.
To succulent apples on an orchard tree and the grapes on a twisted vine,
salted fish and green tart limes are awaiting when the hard day is done.
I am from the touch of the warm sea sand beneath my ragged feet,
where the soft terracotta clay is shaped as it mold between my hands.
My arms pull a wooden cart to Sidon market down the dirt-stained street,
to trade with the Italians, Greeks and Spaniards, and others from distant lands.
I am from the sound of cedar trees blowing in the wind,
the pleasant hum of music of the ancient Phoenician hymns.
A religious sacrifice of animals to cover those who have sinned,
the day comes to an end when the spark of the alter fire finally dims.
I am from the place where wisdom flows so sweet,
where black inked letters formed a world's first thought.
On the vast rugged seashore ancient cultures meet,
always Phoenicians remembered by a world eagerly sought.
I am from an exotic new world where fish is valued as priceless gold,
and vast sailing vessels carry goods to far away countries unknown.
Markets and merchants come together and rare goods are sold,
where the color purple was created and fine glass works are blown.
I am from the spicy aroma of cinnamon and the salty ocean air,
where in the kitchen an open aired oven bakes sweet barely cake.
The musty smell of a well turned garden under a servants care,
sears the lamb for the evening meal and prepares the figs to bake.
I am from the flavor of sweet pomegranates and old aged wine,
from the land of milk and honey, warm porridge with the rising sun.
To succulent apples on an orchard tree and the grapes on a twisted vine,
salted fish and green tart limes are awaiting when the hard day is done.
I am from the touch of the warm sea sand beneath my ragged feet,
where the soft terracotta clay is shaped as it mold between my hands.
My arms pull a wooden cart to Sidon market down the dirt-stained street,
to trade with the Italians, Greeks and Spaniards, and others from distant lands.
I am from the sound of cedar trees blowing in the wind,
the pleasant hum of music of the ancient Phoenician hymns.
A religious sacrifice of animals to cover those who have sinned,
the day comes to an end when the spark of the alter fire finally dims.
I am from the place where wisdom flows so sweet,
where black inked letters formed a world's first thought.
On the vast rugged seashore ancient cultures meet,
always Phoenicians remembered by a world eagerly sought.