The window still remembers our memory
My eyes still have the hope of that glory
Did you forget those afternoons?
When I carried the wood in my hands, I wore my blue burqa
And you were picking apples in your garden
I was carrying a bucket of water from your garden well
My hair, two pony tails, covered the stand well
and I was full of words, so much to tell
My worried thoughts, I looked from the corner of my burqa
Looking at you, it was as if the winds sang a song
And the night still remembers me, a woman poet
I wrote you I loved you, I covered it with a stone
I put that stone on the road, right in your way
Then, I saw how the cruel rain washed it away
Photo by Simon Longworth
What a hart touching poem. i could feel it and could imagine each word and picture it in my mind.
Very nice! Keep writing. I will be happy to read more.
All the best!
Beautiful writing, Pari — a poignant, evocative poem that makes me sad and hopeful too. The hope of the poem comes in the persistent memory of the past. I love that! All best wishes, Nancy