A cup of tea over a tapestry

Bleeding fingers, worn down

years of work and dedication to create a masterpiece

Not one of a kind but limited in its quality and craftsmanship

coming from a war-scarred and oppressed nation

Silk and finest wool and cotton,

soft to the touch that babies play and roll without a burn

I have fond memories of being screamed at for wearing shoes on them

the prized possessions of my great grandmother and now a mother.

Though my home is called the great Satan, and a president said they were in an axis of evil

these "enemies" are my greatest friends in my new home

We share knowledge, drink tea, and debate topics that would offend the normal citizen,

we are supposed to hate, but we love and exchange, and sip the flavors of mint and honey

This fine piece of art, something that I admire each time I enter,

is nothing more than an accessory to the locals.

"What is the price? Oh, can that be discounted more?"
Fine art, flown around the world like Prince Hussein.

Now reduced to a doormat in an apartment,

for sale... but only if at half price.

A Decade Later