A lady from Levant

  • تصفية - فلترة
  • الوقت
  • عرض
إلغاء تحديد الكل
مشاركات جديدة
  • عبد الرؤوف
    عضو منتسب
    • Jun 2014
    • 197

    A lady from Levant

    [align=left]A lady from Levant

    One day I was roaming around in Glasgow, I saw someone* different. Someone who craved attention like oxygen

    She looked so luscious, beautiful like a piece of fine art, she was as dainty as a pearl in nest of diamonds, no man could resist

    She was walking to the beat of her own drum, unusually slowly, indifferent as a star, pirouetted, as if her brain was struggling to tell each foot to take the next step

    Her frame was so delicate that she moved like a shadow and her skin was as finely textured as flour, so luminous it appeared as if it was dipped in milk. she's a nymph

    All of a sudden something triggered her mind. She stopped and looked at me with eyes wide open like a scared deer's

    I greeted her in Arabic. She calmed down. Her eyes are gentle like a gazelle's, and are so dark I felt like I am looking into an endless stretch of midnight sky. Her eyelashes are as stiff as bird tails. Her wrists dangle as if they were sewn to her cuffs and her hair is a veil that tumbles across her shoulders and waves about like a curtain of silk. She just slew me with how gorgeous she looked, how beautiful

    As the conversation went on, her mood ricocheted between low and lower. Sadness bit on her upper lip and her eyes turned glossy with tears. She tried to blink them away from me and when she realized that she couldn't, she pulled up the hood of her jacket and stared at the ground. She hid her tears, and with them all the pain she's been through. And when she looked at me again she turned into a different person. She managed to fake a smile that buried her pain deep inside her heart. But her eyes remained cold, like nothing in this world could melt them. Her coal-black eyes welled up and tears streaked down her angelic face, her lips trembling until she bit them and threw back her shoulders, marching next to me as her tears dried on her cheeks

    Her eyes matched the way she felt towards the unjust world that brought her here: dark and cold. The smell of my Arabic blood awakened memories long forgotten, echoes of those long ago Levant days jarred her mind. Suddenly being forced to swim once more in the tide waters of the past, the whites of her eyes contrasted sharply with the pitch black iris that sunk deep into her head. Its depth resembled that of a black hole in space, an air of eeriness and unsettling foreignness emanated from her soul

    Our conversation came to its end. With legs like string cheese she dilly-dallied down the lane, she moved as lightly as a wisp of air. She meandered from pavement to pavement, stopping occasionally to peer into the crowd. Her eyes would roam critically from one feature to another and catalogue it in her brain. Now and then her feet struck the ground like a person demented, with cries of anguish, curses and lamentations. Seven months have elapsed since her arrival and still she'd barely gotten less than a mile from where she started, Syria

    When she disappeared somewhere in the Scottish crowd, my tears flowed unchecked down my cheeks and dripped from my chin

    Nashwa* has moved recently to live here in Scotland

    وَمَنْ يَأْمَنِ الدُّنْيَا يَكُنْ مِثْلَ قَابِضٍ
    عَلَى الْمَاءِ خَانَتْهُ فُرُوجُ الأَصَابِعِ