The Dozens of Hands
How beautiful she was !
When she is sparkling in the queue of displaced
How sincere her sadness was !
As a poem by black and white
I am waving and call her
And scanning my hand
...
After the queues break up
In that cloudy afternoon
We are sheltering in a small restaurant
And sit side by side
With Her purple light dress
Her small body
And her ruined spirit
She was talking to me
Long silence between sentence and another
I respect it with equivalent silently
She broken my silently every time with fabulous moan
I felt like I was in church
She was yellow
and weak
like an old book
I said :
Do you born in February 17, 1979 ?
She said
Do not try to pressure on the wound
You will need the dozens of hands !
Copyright © Dia Alshirqati | Year Posted 2016
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