Even when his body is here, I do not know in what worlds his spirit is flying, and I did not know how he managed to shake off this body, all the crumbs of the ages. and to make it a bed where his spirit returnes from the flight to lay

His tiny body, like a smile, which began a long time ago the journey of roaming inside itself, folds every day a page of the universe, and shrinks it in, to become a spark of a sense, launched into the darkness of the world of despair.

I usually do not believe who says he came for me, so how about someone who seems to have just taken off his cloak and appeared here, telling hours of his snorting when he was pulled out of the bottom of the pain with God’s hand, I still do not believe it, but he easily extends his gaze in the spacious space to see the reflection of his absurd prophecies on my face, And it is always right.

My Hero, he knew that those who loiter together, become the closest friends, the walking in the night of Damascus under the eyes of the poles of light, in front of the theaters where nylon bags dance, accompanied by wind and passersby returning home, a long dance in the circle of cries that emanated from within us , making all the answers simple, flowing in the form of music, flying from our wings are concerns and troubles, and all the grief is crushed by the sound of love.

While the word “love you” roams the world through the tongues, he fades like a mass of light in love, transmitting fear into tears and swallowing it, uniting his face with all faces in all mirrors, capturing the messages from between the planets and worlds, and then choosing a drowning stranger, to becomes his hero, beating the drums of survival. The survival of love.

Marwa Melhem