Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
Up on the mountain, high and tall,
four thousand meters, above it all,
water won’t boil when it should,
and fire keeps asking if it’s any good!
O lady of the house, how you’ve tried,
the pot complained, “I’m scorched inside!
I cannot wait much longer here,
if only pressure showed some cheer!”
But those old days have slipped away,
today invention has its say.
They brought us pots with clever might,
safe, simple, easy—such delight!
Now water boils though winds may bite,
no bursting lids, no sudden fright,
they cook our lentils, steam our rice,
and make the plateau folk rejoice!
