By Fadi Abu Deeb

The kitchen table is sunny

The kitchen table is sunny like the hell of a tribe’s memory

Thyme leaves lie drenched,

Smell like the odor of a kid’s backpack.

The dark timber beats,

brimful with the hums of old noisy voices.

Traces of cooking smell lurks between time atoms,

radiating as a ray that comes from a noon dwells in eternity.

Beside the window…

The secret of the un-built village is unraveled,

A fragrance of an unknown mistress hangs around.

With a trembled heart\

 I descend to find her,

 in the thickets of our garden