HEARTS

HEARTS

As evening approached our old window, It told me that hearts were fingers of light, descending in the evening like an old peasant with eyes of lapis lazuli.

It told me that the heart has two long braids, and it goes out at dawn to his grandfather's precious orchard, which is very similar to the picturesque gardens of Kashmir. There are pure faces that remind me of my grandparents. Where hearts are white and bright like pearls. I wish you had seen them covered in silk. I hope you saw the gentle rivers; they were as tender as the hearts of the Basrans.

That quiet evening advised me to leave behind foggy hearts, for a pure heart is a free bird that does not live in this dark world. He spoke softly, and I listened. He told me that the heart is the brother of the sun. It was strange and amazing news. So where are the hearts of our dear ancestors? Where are their bright lights?