It Has Not Been a Wave


A wave is never the same.

It turns from green to blue to yellow.

And then splashes and disappears.

A wave carries fish, eggs and skins of dead water creatures.

A wave keeps on polishing corals.

But a wave cannot polish a human soul.

“Tigris” came out of a wave.

She walked in, as if on water, in a black dress, with laces.

Her legs were reflecting the the moonshine.

She had her face covered in a black veil.

“Demoozi” was awaiting , all along, awaiting her.

She told him: “Son, I was not in the sea… I was in the golden wheat fields.

Grow up my son, the sun is everywhere”

She then kissed him goodbye, and went into the calamity building.

“Demoozi” stayed on his tree trunk.

There were no more butterflies.

But cockroaches and snakes.



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