Mireille Eid

The Hand

 

Is this the hand I carry
Floating and brushing my memory?

Something is tapping at my temples
Something to last perhaps
Something to mourn even.

Maybe
From within desert dunes,
Your hand
Will sprout blades
Of grass
And will hold the brilliant silk scarves
That cover my gaze.

And yet
And yet
Something is tapping at my temples
Something to last perhaps
Something to mourn even.

 

©Mireille Eid

  

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