Colours

 

Her eyes were filled with burning tears…  She hasn’t heard good news in a while, and she hasn’t read about something good happening in this world..

So she ran away to her colours, where she felt safe in the arms of her peaceful world… pure world… Her compassionate world…

She transformed into a floating leaf, singing with the rest of these shady greens of the trees… Warming the birds hiding within…

And then she danced with the golden sands, touching the whites of the fluffy clouds, the soft fur of her sleeping cat…

She then became A ray of the sun, transparent but bright, indulged in the velvety depth of the ocean’s blue, and twirled with the waves. She lit the depth of that mysterious darkness, discovering the gems in the brightly coloured fish, the laughing sound of a naughty dolphin, and the haunting notes of the singing whale…

 

No humans she met, that’s why her world is peacefully kept

No humans she found, hence the purity was above and beyond

No humans she breathed, no screams she heard

The reverence of the colours was all she needed

She then woke up to the thundering sound 

In a hollow ground

A raining sky

With the darkest of reds

Where humans bled

She cried for them

As they laughed

So she left them behind

They saw her transform

To the silver of the moon

This time

 

Angels...!!!

She has always believed in purity. She has always believed in platonic love for everything.  She has always believed in small creations that can simply make a sad face smile... 

It was a small notion of adoration that made her smile after a long cry.  She felt pain, pain that was eating her... Her bones were aching, but she never cared, it was her soul throbbing of sadness; what made her cry.  Her feeling of being useless, unable to help someone in pain, or sometimes cannot even help period... 

But, she smiled and later laughed...  And she knew her day will be better, her week will be better...

Her beautiful sick cat has the flu, and he was sneezing, his little pink nose is wounded because of it... She tried to pat him, but he won't let her, she tried to hold him, but he hid behind the curtains and kept watching the garden throughout the window...  What she didn't know that he was watching her reflection as well... As soon as she tried to open the curtain looking for him, he jumped at her, with his usual hide and seek jump... Then ran under the bed... 

"Where is Hunter?" She said with a smile, waiting for his notion of play... And she laughed, as he wagged his tail waiting for her to pick him up and cuddle him...

He tried to give her his morning small peck of a kiss, but his nose hurts...

He made her day...

She smiled, her dad made her day yesterday and the day before and the years before... Her mum made her day, the day before, and the years before, her dearests and nearests, always made her day, the day before and the days before...

Angels, oh yes she believes in them...  They are around her, and who knows, she might be one to someone...

وهي، من أين؟

  

وهي، من أين؟

كانت متحمسة جدا، قد جاء يوم البزار. 

طاولتها ملئت بلوحاتها... والنَّاس من حولها مشغولين بمليء طاولاتهم بما حملوا من فنون، فولكلور، أفكار، عطور، أدب وخطوط، مأكولات قد عشقوا، و ذكريات ما كانوا ينادون ب"بلدي".

وفي الضجة، تقدمت من طاولتها امرأة عجوز وسألتها عن لوحاتها، وهكذا دار الحوار:

- هل رسمت تلك اللوحات؟

- نعم يا سيدتي

- احس بدفيء ينبعث منها

- أشكرك كثيرا، في الرسوم شيء من حضارة بلدي الذي جئت منه

- هل عشت في بغداد؟

- أنا من بغداد

- أنا عشت في بغداد لعدة سنوات في الستينيات واحببت المدينة وناسها، ذاكرتي عنها مليئة باشياء جميلة.  اخبريني عن لوحاتك...

- أوه، لوحات السيدات الأربع، اربع بائعات متجهات لسوق بغداد، يحملن القيمر والخبز والحليب والتمر، يغنون أغانينا التراثية القديمة التي كلماتها عكست في كل مبنى. وكل بناية تغني أغنية. 

- غني لي هذه الأغاني

- هنا البيت يضحك مستعد لفرح، خطار عدنا الفرح نعلگ صواني شموع، وهنا السوق يشهد نظرات حب... مالي شغل بالسوگ مريت اشوفك، والنخلات غنت فوگ النخل فوگ يابة فوگ النخل فوگ

- أوه، تذكرت هذه الألحان. اخبريني عن اللوحة السوداء

- اللوحة تظهر بعض البنايات المعروفة في بغداد.  اللوحة تعبر عن الحرية، حرية الفن والحضارة وبسمات الناس ودموعهم لفقدان ابن....

ولم تستطع إكمال كلماتها، وهي ترى دموعها تتراكم وتترورق في عينيها، وغصة الفراق خنقتها وعبرات الشياق اسكتتها.  ابتسمت والدموع في عينيها، واعتذرت...

- سامحيني يا سيدتي، تركت مدينتي منذ سنوات طوال، وهذه ذكرياتي الجميلة عنها، ذكريات طفولتي، وجمال ذكريات أمي وابي، وبطولات جدي واصحابه، وقوة وصبر جدتي، ومعاناة أعمامي وأخوالي وعماتي وخالاتي.  هذه ذكريات اخوتي وأولاد أعمامي وأخوالي، وألعاب طفولتي في شوارعها وأصحابي... ترجياتنا للالٰه التي همسناها لنحيا، وفرارنا من قنبلة لنعيش اليوم... هذه تضحياتنا، واعتقالاتنا، وكل شيء انت قد تقرأين في رواية، ولكنا عشناه...  كل دمعة حملت كل هذا وما خفى... فاعذريني.

انتهى اليوم وعادت لبيتها بشوق لتخبر صديقتها البعيدة القريبة

- صديقتي، هل من حقي ان اشعر بشموخ العراقيين وهم ينادون للحرية؟ لقد هربت وتركت البلد، فهل لي الحق ان اشعر بحزنهم، او فرحهم؟

- وكيف لا، وقد تعمدت بمياه دجلة، اكلت التمر من أيدي عشتار، وشممت عطر الرازقي.

  كيف لا، وقد نطقت كلمات المتنبي، وناقشت أساطير گلگامش.  ونمت على كتف بابل، وبهرت بقبر الحسين، وأحببت علي وطفت حول الگيلاني. كيف لا، وقد شربت شاي تحت شمس تموز وأكلت خلال اپ، وقرأت في مكتبة الموصل، وحاكيت حارس بوابة نمرود.  كيف لا، وقد ركضت بغابات سرسنگ وبردت قدميك في شلال البيگ.

انت انرت شمعة في كنيسة الكرادة، ولامست يداك ابو نواس. 

وقفت وحييت جندي سقط، وبكيت لدموع والده، وشاركت سماء الليل مع الجيران في نومة السطوح وضحكت بانتظار القطار...

قد تكونين بعيدة، ولكن قلبك هنا...

أنهت الحديث، وعرفت من اين، هي.

Where is she from?

She was so excited, the event is here... Her table is filled with her paintings... People around busy arranging their tables, with whatever they have that show their art, culture, thoughts, fragrance, literature, food, and their memories of what they used to call "home". 

And an old lady approached her table and was asking about her paintings, that was the conversation...

- did you paint these?

- yes madam. 

- they have some warmth about them.

- thank you. They show some of the culture of where I come from.

- did you live in Baghdad?

- yes. 

- oh I lived there for few years in the sixties... So beautiful, I have fond memories of the city and the people.  Tell me about your paintings!!

- oh, the one with the four ladies shows ladies going to the market selling their produce, of cream, bread, dates, and milk... On their way they are singing some old songs that we all know... The whole buildings behind them are singing...

- what are these songs? Sing them

- خطار عدنا الفرح نشعل صواني شموع

مالي شغل بالسوگ مريت اشوفك عطشان حفنة سنين والرؤى على شرفك

فوگ النخل فوگ يابا فوگ النخل فوگ

- oh I remember some of these tunes...

Tell me about the black one

- oh, these are iconic buildings of my city... The painting is about thinking of Liberty via art and martyrdom.  Showing how we combine sadness and happiness with our art, culture, smiles and tears...

And she couldn't finish her sentence... She can see her tears, she can feel her throat sinking with the warmth of her next word...  She smiled, and tried to apologise...

- pardon me madam, but I left this city a long time ago, these are the nice memories of my childhood, the beautiful memories of my mother and father, the heroic memories of my grandfather and grandmother, the struggle for life of my uncles and aunts, the smiles of my cousins, the games we played in the street with the neighbours... The prayers we whispered for survival, the runs we made to live, the sacrifices, the jails and everything that you can only read about, to live... Is in one of these tears... So forgive me... 

The words in it is about the river Tigris that passes through the city, like a diamond tiara, each of its smaller waves Cary with it years of love to the land and the people.

She returned home, and talked to her friend...

- my friend, do I have the right now to feel proud that my people are calling for Liberty?

I ran away, so do I have the right to feel the sadness of the people or the happiness of them?

- you were baptised in the river Tigris, you ate dates of Ishtar's palms, and inhaled the fragrance of the Razqi flower.  You spoke with Elmutanabi's poems, and discussed the stories of Gilgamish. You slept on the shoulder of Babylon, felt the reverence of Al Hussain's, loved Ali, and circled Al Gailani.  You read in the library of Mosul, and talked to the guard of Nimrod.  You drank tea under July's sun, and waited for August's dates.  You ran between the trees in Sersang, and cooled your feet in the waterfall. You lit a candle in the church of Al Karrada, and held the hands of Abu Nawas... You stopped and saluted a fallen martyre and bent your head for the tears of his father. You have shared the night sky with your neighbours, and laughed waiting for the train.  You maybe far away, but your heart is always there...

She knew where she came from... 

I am not asking, now you may leave...

She looked at him, feeling the calm anger revolting red in her eyes... She lowered them down, but can feel her eyebrows arching...

He continued with his rambling... Well to her that's how he sounded...

She looked at him and he lost his breadth, and listened...

"I want you to leave. I want to see you leaving, and want you to see me saying good bye.

I want you to leave, while you watch my eyes looking through you onto the space you are going to leave  behind.

I want you to go, slowly, so you can watch me smile with every move you make... I will cry after you leave, but all you will see is my smile...

I want you to go, the more you stay, the more I lose of my soul, the more I shed of my warmth, the more my heart dissolves...

I want to see you out of my life, so I can be free... So I can regain my smile, my composure, my art, my wings and my heart...

So leave... "

She stood up, to feel taller than she ever felt, she felt her heart ache, but some how it was fine, she will get over it... She saw the waves of tears in her eyes, but she just braved her body to straighten up and move...

He knew, he had to leave...

Strumming the Violin

She was lovingly bent on her old violin, it has been a long time since she practiced.  She polished the wood and powdered the strings.  Holding it so softly, she laid it lovingly on her pillow, and covered her eyes to sob, to quietly sob.

Her bed, as usual was unmade, her hair was tied up with the shorter tresses curled and out of the band. She looked in the mirror and saw her reflection, unruly bed hair, pale face, pink puffed cheeks and red eyes. Her silky short nightgown was wrinkled, and the strings of the right shoulder sleeve were laying aside on her arm.

She washed her face, lingering with the amount of cold water she splashed it with, and smiled quietly to the face she saw in the mirror. What else can she do! - She thought, what to do other than smile and try to lock her heart’s guard again? It was her fault to let it loose, her fault to vividly imagine she is loved or cared for.

She has protected herself for years and years, became a machine when it comes to the love affairs of her heart.  She is an intensely passionate person, but she locked her heart, and diverted her passion towards people she loved, people she is so close to, people she worked with, and people she just see in pictures.  She adored everyone and everything, literarily everyone and everything. She lit up when heard a heartily laugh, cried when saw a hidden tear, and felt the burn of a pained body.  But, she was a machine, with her mind in control of her heart, protecting herself from the hurt she once had felt, shielding it from the burning tears she once sobbed. For years, she taught herself to be alone to do everything alone, and within days, she lost all that she learned.  Within days, she met a half that held the other corner, and she willingly let him take it.  For years she couldn't sleep like how people do, and yet, with him here she slept, as if the noises in her head weren't there, because he was there with her on his shoulder."

And here she is again, covering her eyes and mouth to stop the tears and quieten the sobs… She let her guard loose, she let her heart out, and gave in to him.  Knowing what will come, she was cautious at first, but the emotions that she hasn’t felt for all these years, overwhelmed her mind, and clouded her machine like routine. She loved him, like no other way, she surrendered everything she was to him.  

How can she explain, the ocean of calmness within her that she felt when with him, the warmth that was radiating from her when with him, the kindness that matched hers she saw in him, her unspoken thoughts and observations pronounced loudly with his voice.  How can she explain how beautiful and elegant she felt with him, how can she explain how she was so bright, that for the first time in years she saw herself as others see her. 

She loves him, misses him, wants him, yet she knew what was coming. One day has passed, two, a week, and three, and her longing for him is the same.  

She looked at her violin and strummed with her trembling fingers its strings… she strummed and strummed, as if they will get her older rhythm back.  She strummed and strummed, as if these chaotic tones will somehow reorganize her thoughts into the randomness she once had. She strummed and strummed to focus her mind into finding the lock that was lost…

She was still strumming, when her cat napped on her lap and her mum sadly and quietly closed the door on her yet again, anguished daughter…

Don't Go Back... Do Not Leave...

She tried to explain, but couldn't... How can she tell what is going on in her mind, or soul, or everything that she is...??!!
How can she explain the tears with anything other than more tears and broken voice trying to say 'so long, good bye'... Why would such a phrase has the word 'good' in it?????

Hoping he will understand that her good bye means "don't leave"... That Her tears are actually asking him to stay... 

With him being around her, she felt the earth was moving again,and the time, somehow had stood still.  With him being around, she felt young, a kid, and she was acting like one. 

With him being around, she was able to be a spoiled her.  She was able to sing and dance, to joke, to stay late, to go out, and to hold his arm, knowing he will guide her...

She knew if he went back, the memories that his eyes had brought back with him, will be just that... "Memories"... And the scent of the past that he had carried will disappear like that of a scented candle...

She is dreading his leaving day. 

She is dreading her tears that will come, and the emptiness he will leave behind...  

How can she selfishly ask him to stay? But she wants him to stay!!!

"Do not go" she whispered.  "Just do not leave..." She heard herself saying..."just stay here, don't go  back"...

One of the thoughts... The Spoken Silence...

'Why can't we be who we really are?'  She thought.  

'Why don't we try to learn the language of silence? Listening with our eyes and feeling with our ears?'  He laughed, he judged her use of words, and tagged her with silly.  

 So she politely asked ' humor me and hear me out'...  

'Silence can be found in the eyes.  Look deeply into the eyes of a hurting person. You don't need to tell where the hurt is, we only need to be concerned about its meaning. Believe me we can tell, if it was hunger, if it was despair...  If it was a vanishing health or grieving a death...  We can tell...

If we just start to listen with our eyes we learn to speak silence, our silence...'  

He was startled, and started to believe.. He thought how so many times he looked into her eyes and shared her laughter or pain.  How many times he saw her vision and dreamt her dream.  

She continued 'maybe if learned silence we can regain some of what we lost. We can regain our mercy, we can be humane.  Because the scream of silence cannot be dimmed and cannot be stopped.  We will learn to hear each other's thoughts,  we will hear the purity of them.  We won't judge or label or blame, because the truth is in the spoken silence, and that cannot be masked and cannot be other than free'

He realized that he has learned to feel with his ears.  He felt every aahhh she said, and every tear drop he heard. He heard her innocence and felt it. 

Just a thought, one of the thoughts. 

  

 

The Arabian Jasmine (wardat el Razqi)

He looked at her from afar, and saw her empty look, which was strange to him.  Her eyes always had his dream reflected in them, but he couldn't see it today.  He followed her movements, and saw her long fingers holding a white flower, large and oddly shaped petals... He realised what the empty look for.

She was lazily leaning on the wall next to the lecture room, going softly through the pages of an old hand written book.  She lifted her eyes away from the aged and fading lines for a sudden movement had interrupted her thoughts. It was a hand holding a white flower, a small flower with a distinctive fragrance that silently and mysteriously filled her whole body and wrapped her with it. 

Their eyes locked for what seemed to be hours, and their thoughts were interrupted by his odd words that he managed to utter, "this is for you, this is you not the Gardenia you were holding yesterday".  He blushed hearing these strange words, didn't wait for her to reply, he couldn't wait for her to reply, and decided to leave. 

Oh, how much she will cherish this flower, if he only knew... 

She was surprised, how did he know that was her flower, how did he know that all of her life she couldn't breathe any other fragrance than this, and couldn't see perfection anywhere else.  How did he know??!

For years, he kept giving her one of these white flowers every morning. For years he waited for the sun's dancing rays, so he can open his window and find the perfectly shaped flower, with the smallest of these pearly petals. For years, he learned how to call her name while talking to his shrub searching for her. For years he loved her dreamy eyes, her pearly skin, her soft smile and giggly voice. For years, he adored her humbleness, and complexity. For years, he learned her hidden language, and learned how to love her and to tell her with it.

She was reading her little book, turning the pages with her long frail fingers, and leaning her head on her old cat, whispering to him the old love poem she was reading, to be interrupted by a sudden movement. She looked up to see a hand holding a small white flower where it's fragrance filled her old body and wrapped it with its mystery.  She felt her again, she felt him again.  Her eyes looked up to see a young man, loving what he has seen, looking at her as if she was divine.  
She heard him saying before he disappears "my granddad says this is you, it will always be you"....

Human beings are seen then loved. Divine beings are loved then seen...

The Little White Jasmine Rose...

She flipped through the pages frantically.  Her right hand clasped to what seemed a small white flower. "This is you, it will always be you" his voice so clear and so near.

And it fell.  A withering little flower, or what's left of it. 

She suddenly felt the life through her veins, the heat revived and coloured the pink in her cheeks, and the burning excitement of finding her precious gift, gave her brown eyes a diamond shine.

A tall, quiet and always alone girl, a vivid shadow of a dark grey long skirt and a white shirt with short sleeves trimmed with French Lace.  Her few pearl buttons tied up to cover her pearly skin. She was about thirty minutes early. She leaned onto the wall and arched her back to rest on it.  She re-engaged her thoughts with the lines she was engrossed in, with the words of an old poem from an old hand written book.

She never heard his shy steps approaching, and never saw the few cold drops on his forehead, she didn't hear his slowing breadth nearing her circle. She only inhaled that beloved fragrance and glimpsed the small precious petals of the distinguished Grand Duke and its delicate holy colour.

She looked up to see his dreamy eyes, to see her soul reflected in them.  The time has stopped around them.  She saw herself and her dreams.  She saw his unspoken love and denial of it.  She saw their goodbyes, their broken hearts and the loving whispers he murmured.. 

Her eyes showed him their journey.  

"This is you" somehow she heard.  Then saw him disappear. 

She looked at the Autumn kissed flower in her hand, softly touched its petals with her long fingers, and placed it back in the book, and placed the new one next to it.

The falling withering flower reminded her of that unspoken love, of that moment in her life when the time stood still, and her secret dreams were exposed. It reminded her of that moment when she became divine, of that eternal warmth she felt when his fingers touched hers passing the dark green thin stem to them.

The withering petals brought back the laughs they shared and the glances they stole of each other. They kept that sacred bond within their folds and layers... 

Oh if he just knew how much she will cherish that flower. Oh if he only knew how he has exposed her thoughts, and how he locked her mind... 

Oh, how did he hear and listen to her silent language...

The loudest of whispers is the silent one...