« Je me souviens encore de mon enfance mais rien dans le monde de mon enfance ne se souvient de moi. Le pays où je suis née respire encore en moi, mais pour lui je suis morte.» - Amin Maalouf

The desert inhales, slow and heavy,
its skin cracked open to the sky—
I stand here, feet rooted in red sand,
so close to where the earth should feel like home.

The air here tastes like memory,
sharp and dry,
a reminder of what can never be touched.
In the stillness, the wind stirs—violent,
whispering words, twisting through the air,
pushing against the silence.

The sun sets in the desert,
like it sinks into the dead sea,
bleeding golden light across the water,
to reach the land beneath.
The Dome’s torch blows out,
a warmth none can grasp,
fading before it meets the masses,
dissolving into the vastness,
like something I once knew, now forgotten.

I watch the dawn stretch,
a distant glow,
as fragile as a prayer.
And there, just beyond the horizon,
I sense something—
a shadow,
quiet footsteps on sacred ground,
unseen but never forgotten.

The desert is a coffin,
it feels like my chest—
empty, vast, unforgiving,
a hollow space I can’t fill.
My words scatter,
get carried off by winds
who know nothing of hope.
They go adrift through the dunes,
vanishing into the distance.
The echoes,
of all that has been lost,
of all the keys with no home,
never return…

سَنَرجِعُ يوماً ما…