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“War” By Yasmina Aboufirass

“All opinions are that of the author and not necessarily those of the website that it is published under.”

The sun was born again, on a Saturday.
I ran uphill as easily as a feather carried by the wind,
Would glide foolish and heedless.
And when my lungs could no longer be contained
In my small frail chest,
I stopped and looked down at the house
That was now, nothing more than a white dot
In a carpet of green.

And when I had reached the top,
I surrendered my limbs,
To the laws that kept all in place,
And in that violent downward pull,
I laughed because it was easy,
My chest, like a raging ocean, rose and fell,
And in an asynchronic choreography,
My legs carried me back down to the foot of the hill,

I never cared to remember.
There never seemed to be a reason.

One dusty, dry summer day,
On the side, of a narrow red street
A chin sat on wrinkled, hetergenously colored hands,
Settled on an old wooden cane.
And from a distance, one could see,
The veins on those hands, dark turquoise,
(Or were they green?)
Tracing their way, serenly
Into the tip of five wrecked fingers.

On that chin sat a nose, ugly and shapeless;
A good definition of bad architecture,
And in a pure display of disobediance and anarchy
It never ceased to develop,
Outrageously growing…outgrowing, the eyes,
the mouth, the chin and the face,
The old man was alive. Still.
His eyes, behind thick glasses,
The size of a dot.
Could he see?

His memory, swayed,
from scenery to scenery,
words to sounds and sounds to words,
Odors to lights and lights to gazes,
Gazes to faces and faces to phrases ;
And he could remember,
Grass, hills and a white house,
His laughter, his carelessness,
The smell of air at the top of a hill,
That he could situate neither in space nor time,
But it mattered little.
His rigid lips smiled an invisible smile,
That his heart alone could sense.

In a corner, a girl,
Not scared, but curious,
With eyes wide open,
Was mesmerized by this old inert man.
Subtle like a rock.
And in the midst of havoc
Old motorcycles and
Dark toxic smoke of
Sixty-six year old cars,
Of that red narrow street,
There was a moment of silence
Where her eyes were hypnotized but his chest,
Like still water, rising and falling
In the most basic expression of life.

When all is forgotten,
When all seems tainted and darkened,
A long forgotten memory,
Like a soothing sun, born again,
Is all that is left.

A rumble, the dust from the ground,
Rose to the air, to form a polluted fog,
And the tip of a tank, appeared.
The girl looked at what would be,
The only image she would remember.

War takes over memory.
Memory is all.

“All opinions are that of the author and not necessarily those of the website that it is published under.”

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