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June 17, 2024


By Sheikha A.

I watched your grandchild at the mosque
that day

in his white gold embroidered dishdasha
he had the look of freedom and future
on his face

and then my gaze fell upon yours,
your eyes had pinched in

like the lids grown a spurt of skin
over the corneas

your pupils barely visible,
your smile an ominous deed

and the sermon in the background
was felling a wavering harvest

caught between the words
of illumination travelling

a shaken path; I watched him
seeing his face in mine

the same eyes and laughter
of when before they were

buried like a blessing
to prevent its existence

but what's buried grows,
just like he will

just like his heart that will know
your deed

then you'll wish for the blessing to grow
a rose, for a single drop of its milk
when your tongue has scraped

the truth off it as final words.

Article © Sheikha A.. All rights reserved.
Published on 2016-08-22
Image(s) are public domain.
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