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death doesn't even have a pot with flower at his balcony, 2024

On one side, the unconscious paints;
on the other, I do.

I want to blacken its side.
It won’t let me.
I cry.

I saw the hatred on my mother’s lips.
At some point, I stopped crying.

Let me describe how my father died:
He drowned into the sea,
cursing,
cursing,
cursing the ship that couldn’t reach him.
His ashes still remain in Egypt.

When they told me about his drowning,
I thought of the sea.
Not once did my mind wander the land.

Looking at a full moon,
his tongue turned backward.

I imagine there were many ways he could have drowned—
a small bone,
an apology lodged firmly in his throat, and so on.

See how insignificant our life is compared to death:
Draw a line on the floor.
Now imagine that line extending infinitely.
Place a dot in the middle—
there,

that’s how small and insignificant life is compared to eternity.
The rest is death,
our timeless nonexistence.

You’re in a car,
entering a dark garage.
That’s how it feels.

We were in the deepest,
darkest room.
We stayed silent—
at least, I stayed silent,
while the others kept opening the curtains.

I knew he wasn’t coming just for the diamond.
I wasn’t even sure I had a diamond hidden.

Psychosis feeds on reckless panic.
How naive to think I could lock Death out!
I found the yellow key,
locked the front door.
Locked the inner door with another key
and slid two bolts across.
Foolish me!

Soon, he knocks on the kitchen door.
I forgot to mention—I had locked that one earlier, too.

With his palm pressed against the glass, he shouts:
“You are not allowed to lock the door!”

I opened it.
I saw only a dark figure.

I thought of the house where a woman and her daughter once lived.
They left recently.
Rain dripped from the ceiling—
they never repaired the roof.

On the kitchen floor, they found six fingers.

The next day, I walked down the street of that house,
a street full of flowers.

I thought about how Death doesn’t have a single pot with  flower
on his balcony.

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