By Mohammad A.Yousef
In the pages where laughter meets the road,
Mark Twain, a traveler with a curious heart,
Takes us to Damascus, a city whispered through time,
Where history writes its chapters in stone.
He strolls through streets heavy with sun,
Old walls telling stories in every crack,
He sees the spice of life wafting like dreams,
The market a burst of color, life alive.
Vendors call out, their voices rise like a morning song,
Pomegranates, figs, and dates, a feast for weary eyes,
Wooden carts creak, heavy with treasures,
Each piece holding whispers of distant lands.
Twain, with his laugh, so bright against shadows,
Notes the swirl of bedsheet cloths,
An Eastern breeze carries laughter, warmth,
Almost loud enough to drown the past.
He speaks of a city risen from ashes,
Where love mingles with the scent of incense,
And the minarets stretch like hands reaching for the sky,
Old yet stirring, proud yet humble.
He marvels at the people, faces weathered,
Each wrinkle, a story, each smile, a sun
That softens the weight of old battles fought
In the heart of this ancient place that still beats.
At the edge of twilight, he pulls out his pen,
Writing for those left waiting back home,
Joining the threads of now and then,
Capturing the magic that held him still.
Oh, to wander among those whispers and dreams,
To breathe the air that carried the past,
While laughing at the fickle nature of time,
Knowing every step is a step into history.
Damascus, a memory caught in his ink,
Marks left by a pen that dances like fire,
And Twain, the innocent seeker, forever curious,
Reminds us—we are all just travelers here.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
What a piece of art! This poem made me speechless. Neatly written.