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