Their language rolls out,
soft carpet in front of them.
Strolling slowly beneath trees,
men in white shirts,
belts, baggy trousers,
women in scarves,
glinting cigarettes in the dusk.
What they left to be here, in the cold country,
where winter lasts forever,
haunts them in the dark -
golden hue of souk in sunlight,
gentle calling through streets that said, brother,
sit with me a minute, on the small stool
with the steaming glass of tea. Sit with me.
We belong together.
Have you ever read a better line than this? I know we probably have but on this day and in this moment, this line is the best ever! ! ! Their language rolls out, soft carpet in front of them.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nice sketch of Arabs with their familiar attire.....10