Memory

Lying on the fresh green grass
of my village’s suburb-Sharar; I see her
walking through a narrow lane among the blue water lilies
on her way to the thyme bushes, eagerly

She is fresh, prosperous, joyful and full of energy

Wearing a colorful buttoned Abaya, and a light rosy scarf

Then, I see her coming back holding a bunch of thyme leaves and looking at it gratefully

As usual she pays no attention to how muddy and dirty her brown shoes became

 

I bit now she’s going to say

Oh my God look what happened to me!

Then she starts to laugh

Oh yeah, her she goes, as if she didn’t expect it..surprisingly.

 

She rushes to that old white Suborra- all of us call it the same

She opens the rear door

Lays the thyme leaves gently in the backseat

And says: Habibti its time to go home

 

How dull and dreary words can be

For those who yearn to revive such a memory
for those who now know that true moments may be distorted easily

And for those who try to interpret such imagery

 

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