The stars are foaming out of the spikes of your hair above the brown forehead, sweeping the imagination of tenderness in every whiff, roaming your honey-shaded eyeballs and smiling.

The golden spikes return to your eyelids, discovering in their depth a cave enchanted with rubies and Elder, its stacked treasures flashing with a rainbow and smiling.

I screamed brutally whenever I walked alone without your hands, meditating nature, what color does it have without your cheek, and crying “Mother, Mother” every single moment.

And this time I am the one smiling.

From me, from my kingdom and my myth, I send a telegram to your eyes, saturated with precious Damascene jasmine, written on its edges “every day and every year, in the size of oceans and planets, and the stars of heaven, I wish you all the goodness and eternal happiness.

And a pink smile.”

To the one who taught me the meaning of life, to the greatest woman in human history, to my mother, the spring of tenderness.

Mohamad Darwish