Mark Twain On Damascus Poem by Mohammad Yousef

By Mohammad A.Yousef

In the ancient city of Damascus,
Where the stones whisper tales of old,
Mark Twain, a wanderer with a pen,
Treads softly on the cobbled paths,
Where history breathes in every crack,
And the sun dips low, painting shadows.

He pauses at the Umayyad Mosque,
Its arches like the arms of time,
Welcoming him into its cool embrace,
A tapestry of faith, woven in gold
And the echoes of prayers,
Rising like smoke from incense,
Carrying secrets of the heart.

Twain, with his sharp eyes,
Sees the bustling souk,
A maze of colors, spices, and laughter,
Where merchants barter and bicker,
And stories flow like the sweet tea,
Steaming in small, delicate cups,
Shared among friends and strangers alike.

He smiles at the children chasing dreams,
With kites that dance in the sky,
Bright as the hope that fills the air,
Their laughter, a melody,
That rings through the narrow streets,
Like a bell calling the world to joy.

He thinks of the tales he'll tell,
Of a land steeped in stories,
Where each face holds a thousand lives,
Each corner a piece of the puzzle,
A patchwork of cultures,
Knotted together by fate and time.

Twain reflects on the beauty and pain,
The laughter and sorrow intertwined,
How every street has its own heartbeat,
And every heart knows its own beat,
He scribbles thoughts, ink flowing like rivers,
Capturing the essence of this place,
Where the past and present collide.

As the sun sets over the horizon,
Casting a golden glow on the rooftops,
Twain stands still, a silhouette,
Against the backdrop of history,
Feeling the weight of all who came before,
And all who will follow,
In the endless dance of life.

Damascus, a city of dreams,
Where time is a thread, unbroken,
Where Mark Twain, with his curious soul,
Finds a piece of himself among its stories,
A reminder that we are all wanderers,
Searching for meaning in the tapestry,
Of life, love, and the world we share.