BY:Maysoon Al-Eryani
It's not suffering
That makes us birds
Or inflames God's voice in our questions

It's not sadness
Which arranges our shoes at the door of paradise
Or gives our pale essence its color
 

There are things we never get Familiar with
Messing us
Like a tied dream
Nibbling its fingers
Plucking its wings
Again
And Again
  Until it turns into a child paper
  Making it fly
Drawing on it
A T-shirt,
  Candy
And a golden box
Which I will lock
Thus heart evaporates not