Nostalgia


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A chronic refugee, the bitter​ exhausting​ exile​ throws you into the depths of dewy dreamy aspirations​. You ran frantically searching​ for you​ between the folds of your exhausted, nostalgic memories, which ​you’ve lost​ on​ce upon a​ tearful night.

With trembling eagerness, you try to trace the features of a time long gone, and paint faces that had lost its miens, expressions and demeanor, to a deeply buried pain.

You sow za’ater seeds, during the wrong season, wrong time and wrong place, in faraway lands, amidst strangers who do not know its name, colour, scent or flavour.

You tenderly pick its budding leaves, hoping that its perfume would fly you away to a childhood orchard with an ancient house at the foothills, where a goldfinch dozed off in its nest, and a swallow slumbered on a almond tree branch.

You lovingly build a taboon, a clay oven, with your bare hands, hoping that the aroma of its bread would carry you away one day, to a distant land and a beautiful time which once was, never to return, or rock you to sleep, in the warm arms of your grandmother.

Springs of hope plaited with pain, gush through your anguished soul. Tears of grieving joy flow, so much so that for a moment, you would imagine that with a lump of terracotta clay between your fingers, a chunk of Palestine had been liberated.

Kneading, rolling, baking and stuffing za’ater pies in the land of Balfour, which has never recognized you, your history, your geography, your rights, your humanity or your civilization.

You scream silently: O you, if only you knew !  You would have seen the soil of my homeland boasting before the stars, that my ancestors had meandered over it. With a huge grin, the stars would respond: glory is all mine for their love, hospitality and kindness have surpassed my lofty skies.

 

3 Responses

  1. Ohh Myy God… Soo yuummm My Sis….❤❤!

    Like

  2. Words of gratitude can’t express the emotions provoked by your poems. This poem about time pertains the impossible desire of it not passing because its smell and taste are so heavenly.

    Past is present soon to be past, so nothing really goes, while not everything stays… In the eternal perspective, our motion imply returns, creating continuity. It all persists in spite of our nostalgia, of our pain.

    The poem is heart breaking and yet it celebrates the serene beauty of the eternal… Unlike stones and hills, a little wind or a little dream even can whisk us to what appears to be far, when our little hearts continue to beat with the song of that goldfinch and swallow.

    Even the delicate flowers of the almond trees, and the subtle scent of the olive tree, are just as much ephemeral as they are forever anchored in our memories. The very same will be felt by the next generation of Palestinians in Palestine.

    Liked by 1 person

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