Dialogue under a Tree
Does the leaf know it’s being watched when it falls?
Gracefully drifting down,
gently, when it touches the water’s face.
A soft caress, gingerly
stroking the pond’s cheek.
Connecting without disturbing the image,
preserving the visage of the tree.
Its descent reflects the timeless dignity
of both its host and ward.
Does it concern itself with the thirsty vagabond?
As it worriedly drifts towards his parched lips
desperately drinking from the pond’s edge,
carefully slowing his frantic guzzle to a calm sip?
Motherly instinct, a sympathetic act
towards a lost and wandering soul.
Dabbing the corner of his mouth
with tender frequency,
nudging him to take his time lest he chokes.
No, we do not know their nature.
For in a different light,
they were severed from home
and brought low to their demise.
They fall regardless of audience or witness.
They fall slowly, glimpse for a moment.
They make no splash, nor a ripple,
for they are weak and in their death throes.
They look for comfort in a stranger,
because they fear confronting the end alone.
My need quenched, I briskly brushed the leaf aside.
When the water set, instead of my face,
I beheld the last leaves of summer.
Dancing on beckoning branches,
waiting their turn to ride the western wind.
Waving as they take flight
toward the blooming dusk.
About Love
I’ve been wondering
lately, about love
how it dies,
and where it goes
when it does…
I suppose some loves
die quickly, silently
deprived of oxygen,
strangled with care.
Some may free-fall
through ocean depths,
weighted down,
sinking slowly, then
Quickly a silent thud.
Others may slow-burn
in a desert bonfire,
struggling embers
whimpering,
cries unheard
ashes left behind,
or not a trace
of having been.
Maybe there’s
a love heaven,
where once
loving spirits
spend eternity…
I would like to think that.
Once upon a time,
I cried over this
Tears ran like a river…
One day,
they froze in my eyes.
River creatures,
prisoners in chunks of ice
My heart too.
The thaw is slow…
and painful.
Feel Free
Like the bird of your soul
locked in the cage of everyday life
behind the bars of coercion.
From the depths rises into your brain,
How can it sing again?
Who will give it freedom?
Who will open the bars?
New things urge you to try.
Find the way to freedom
and fly, fly, fly…
You want to explore other dimensions,
in unknown circles,
far away from the grey life
and prove yourself.
In the darkness of the night
in an unguarded moment
the bird could escape.
Show what is unexplored,
growing and stirring within you,
hidden for far too long
cherished deep within.
Release it like a bird
that flies light as a feather in the sky,
so that your suppressed desire
may finally find its freedom.
Sweet Memories
Your faded photograph hangs
on my wall.
Tears flow as I remember,
our simple joys in late October.
I lift my face to the darkening sky,
and taste each raindrop as it falls;
I raise my hands to the firelight
Warmth;
Each flame contains an image:
Do you remember the flowers?
The sun peeping white through
clouds of white.
The stars in the evening,
shining bright.
The water lapping against the sand,
The wonder and beauty of the land?
No further Palette is needed
To find the beauty therein.
Withdrawn into myself
I love the sight my eyes behold;
These things I’ll cherish when I’m old,
All caught up in emotions,
Ecstatic, elated in devotion,
Some memories are like a breeze,
Like the words of a lingering song.
Your smiling face, your easy grace,
Your sad voice still recalls
Past visions of delight.
I face the day with renewed hope.
Just like the petals of a Petunia
Or the thorns of a rose
Blessed with so many emotions
We can forever own
.
We count the many Moons
that rise and fall
In the bleak nights,
Trust that the distant
Sun will return.
So we don’t sleep
I’m afraid to close my eyes,
O mother,
Your eyelash raises one question after another.
There’s a story in your eyes—speak it.
Words yawn on my tongue,
They’ve lived there long enough.
Arise, O rubble,
Come out of me!
I no longer want to cradle you.
Perhaps I could breathe,
With a body freed from shrouds.
Send her out of our home.
Can we tidy the house one last time
Before we’re displaced?
Can we photograph it for memory—
Store our laughter, our tears, our screams—
Then leave?
O sea stacked before us
Like a shy embrace
In a world not ours,
Can you send our echo to nearby oceans,
That a giant whale may strike the occupier’s base?
Can we invent a new alphabet
For fear, for pain, for home,
So the world hears
That grey, continuous sound above us—
Buzzing planes,
Roaring rockets
Above green, above ruin,
Above a gravestone
Scrawled in charcoal on a burnt house,
The trace of a firebelt…
We won’t tell them, “We said… and we said…”
A thousand times, the eyes sip from the sky
While we search for warmth
To gently carry us to sleep
Under our balcony,
A seamless sleep that tickles the stars.
I want… to yawn.
I want… to sleep.
I dreamed of some leader speaking—
Do you hear, mother?
I see you laughing, feeding the birds.
I see you playing on the swing of paradise,
Iridescent colours glowing in a rainbow slumber,
Like a bottle shaken—all mixed inside.
O mother, I swear I saw it:
One shroud in Gaza holding
The bodies of three martyrs.
So I became a worn, wounded body
Groaning with pain.
I want to hear the heartbeat of the sun—
Or the heart itself… that sponge
Which has grown hard.
That’s how we walk—on feathers—
Until we reach the peak of exhaustion
In full daylight, and say:
O Christ… tomorrow…
We shall live here.
Olives of Gaza
Beyond the foreboding walls,
as the sunset begins to fall,
a group of olive trees are swaying
normally, we would hear the sound of children playing.
But in this melancholic place,
children no longer have smiles on their face
as the bombs begin to drop,
all happy memories are soon forgot.
And what is left, is a gaping hole,
where life once stood.
Buildings may have been destroyed,
but you cannot destroy Gaza's soul.
For even though Gaza now is filled with sadness,
and moments of despair,
the pride the people have in their land
is something very much still in the air.
And this is all thanks to the little olives,
who have been swaying in the wind
and who watch over Rafah, Khan Younis,
Deir Al Balah, Jabalia and all
who are the ones who have sinned.
So the olives sway in the wind all day,
so Gaza's children can once again play.
Souad Zakarani is a poet, writer & Literature-translator from Morocco. Her works have appeared in many Anthologies worldwide. Her poems ,short stories, Essays & Articles can be read in a variety of international publications, including WELL READ Magazine, Hooligan Street Poetry, Revista Sofón, RESEARCH PLANET Journal & others. In 2025, her poem “Weiß” is shortlisted for Ulrich Grasnik Lyrikpreis.
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