The Mother Palm
The villages in Shimaliya (Sudan) carry a sweet fragrance, their garments the palm trees. Dressed like the ones preparing to celebrate Eid.
I once had a dream about a date palm
Her long hair winding, clutching at the sun
Heat radiating, carrying images of sweetened oasis.
A Mother Palm - her daughters clinging tightly to her trunk.
Slowly she rocks them to a deep slumber
Sleep my gentle ones- she whispers a lullaby
As they
gently coo
Her deep wrinkles carrying secrets of time
Stories and prayers of passers by, - sustained by her prosperity.
Her fruits, the warm sweet dates - coursing their way through the body of the fasting one.
Extinguishing the flame of hunger spreading through them.
The palm was protective- her shade extending cooling those seeking refuge from
the harsh fevered sands
She waves her long, slender fingers adorned with golden rings at strangers from afar guiding them over towards her.
Met with a cascade of her fruits raining down
A split necklace
Her beads exploded in every direction
“Ya 3amatna Al Nakhala”
They proclaim
Emptying their water skin upon her
And offer her a warm embrace.
Rana Galgal