The Road to Aleppo

The road to Damascus might be paved with gold,
and enlightenment, some say,
if I were free enough to look.
But, more’s the pity, I am not going to Damascus,
nor am I free. The French I speak is no lingua franca,
despite the name designed to make fools of us--
a pure necessity, for one who travels alone,
who makes her way in a world
gone mad long ago, yet very much
the way the world will continue to be.
The cloud above my head
is where I’m going, not where I’ve been.
The one that hides my face is not who I am
but who you tell me I’m bound to be.