الجمعة، 21 ديسمبر، 2012

أشياء لا تُشترى



سنة تانية هتخلص و  إنتِ زي ما إنتِ, زي ما بحبِك.

أنا مرقصتش مع حد قد ما رقصت معاكي.  إحنا رقصنا ف كل حتة و مع ناس مختلفة و ناس نعرفها و ناس منعرفهاش. و دايماً كنا بنرقص لحد ما نعيط من الضحك و نروح ننام و نصحى نضحك تاني.

بفتكر مارس إللي قبل إللي فات و بفتكر أول مرة شفتِك فيها. كنتِ بترقصي على "فكروني" في إسكندرية و أنا كنت مبهورة. كانت أخر حاجة متوقعاها إني أشوف سولو رقص شرقي على واحدة من أكتر الأغاني إللي بحبها.

بعدها ع القهوة كنتِ بتاكلي سندوتشات كبده و أنا قمت و أكلت سندوتشين زيك بالضبط.

شيء جميل إن الواحدة يكون ف حياتها واحدة زيك تقلدها.

بفتكر لما كنت أنا إللي بعلمك الرقص و بعمل خطواتي الفظيعة و كنتِ إنتِ بترقصي ورايا كأني عارفة أنا بعمل إيه. و فاكرة في حنة ليلى؟ أنا إتخضيت بجد. حسيت إني بشوفك تاني لأول مرة و بعرفِك من جديد و إحنا واقفين كلنا شوية ببدل رقص و شوية منغير و إنتِ كنتِ أجمل حاجة أنا شفتها ف حياتي
بردو يومها كنتِ لابسة فستان بمبة زي إللي كنتِ لابساه ف إسكندرية,

إحنا بقالنا سنتين بنقول نفس الكلام على كراسي مختلفة بس إحنا مش زي ما إحنا.

أنا عارفة إن أنا كبرت بيكي و معاكي و شفتِك بتكبري بالرغم من كل شيء و شفتِك برده بتصغري ف لحظات و ترجعي شبه البنت الصغنونة إللي لا أن و لا إنتِ بنعرف نرد عليها.

طوال السنتين دول إنتِ كنتِ معايا و أنا بخرج من حكايات و أدخل في حكايات عشان أطلع منها أقوى و متلخبطة و بردو إنتِ جنبي على طول.  

و المصيبة إن بعد ده كله لما بتكوني متضايقة أو مش كويسة أنا مش بعرف أعمل إيه. بت مفعوصة زيّ هتعمل إيه عشان تخرجك من أي حاجة مغيمة يومك؟

هنرقص

هألف كوريوجرافي جديدة و هنرقص و نضحك و نعيط و نصحى نضحك تاني.

هنرقص بطريقة عبيطة زي ما أنا بعمل على طول  و  ف ثانية أنا هبطل رقص عشان إنتِ بترقصي بجد  من قلبِك و هتفرج على كل حركة من وسطتك و هي بتنطر كل حاجة مزعلاكي و مخلية ضحكتك ضيقة.

هنرقص عشان ده إللي بقالنا  سنتين بنعملوا. وسط إللي ماتوا و إللي عاشوا من جديد و إللي ضربوا و إللي رقصوا و إللي عرضوا و  إللي حبوا و  إللي إتحبوا إحنا كنا بنرقص.

ف السنتين إللي فاتوا الحاجتين إللي متغيروش كانوا أنا و إنتِ.





الأحد، 16 ديسمبر، 2012

bad poems and broken garlic cloves



attempt at poem

jealousy has a smell
that has lived for
two days on the
tips of my forefingers
and my three thumbs

it doesn’t smell like
me nor does it have
my eyes but it has
inherited my obsession
over little things

its still there between
my toes hiding because
jealous women are un
desirable jealous women
are irrational and they
never have never will
have that thing you
want

this jealousy of mine
smells like garlic
and it is worse than a
mothers jealousy of her
little girls budding life

it is so much worse
because it leaves this
insecure hole of mine
gapping like a rape
victim and no matter
how much soap i use my
fingers still smell of garlic
so i try to feel better by
rubbing them unto the
wood of my pencil as i
write this


p.s.


hey
you
inta
yes, im speaking to you with no love
i just wanted to tell you that
i am no longer
nice

nice women do not dance with the moon
nice women do not make love like the sun
nice women do not bathe in rivers
nor do they sing out of tune
as they drink extra sweet karkade without caring
that a tiny drop of hibiscus stained your denim

nice women build bridges on their back bones
so you pass above the universe
untarnished
unspoiled
untouched by the soot of the world below
and once you cross
nice women perk up
and rub your toes to sleep

now i just wanted to state this
nice is my past tense
and you may of course not believe
because you have drunk me sweet
but if you just take a moment
to remember

nice women's cunts
don’t smell like me



quilt

so a year from now you will no longer
be on my mind
that's such a happy thought
i have a year
12 months divided collided decided
so i can make you go away
from the roots of my hair
and the air in my lungs

sometimes i cannot breathe so well
when i recall the months spent
on your table open for dissecting
waiting to be fixed willing for
your scalpel to love me skin first
and bone deep

but then i think they've passed
so quickly - those months -
another 12 wont be so bad
maybe next december i'll take
out the stitches and cover
someone other than you



third

i want to write an honest poem about my cunt
i have never written one before
they say it is not easy to write in the dark

my attempts keep failing because i write
about my kuss in sunlight and she has
been raised to come at night or when
the light from the closed shutters is
too dim to scare her

perhaps to be honest
i should say how prob
lematic it is to say her
name in my tongue and
to keep it scentless and
how i fear a meeting
when it will not be as
full as a peach cut in
half dripping in the
end of autumn

you see
even cunts get
emotional with the
change of seasons

to be honest one has
to say that the love
one is handled down
as a girl does not have
a trail below the navel

to build tracks requires a
hole lot of love a hole
lot of guts

so to be honest i can never write a poem
between my legs without conquering the
loneliness of being trapped so far away from
my nose and eyes of having only fingers to see
with

till then i will just write a poem for my cunt
whom i haven't met yet but we've shaken
hands on rainy days hoping that we meet to the
music of her name and we write a poem that does
not smell of cheese one day we will write a poem
honestly




earth colors


the little sofa
in the parlor
is mine –

it’s the colors i
never wear – the
size i want to be –
the bed i cannot
fit my dreams in

its of no importance
failing to fold
my being into a two seater –
using the wrong adjective –
referring to a parlor this
pyramid apartment has
not known – 

the sofa is still here
and I still crawl to it
after midnight

الثلاثاء، 9 أكتوبر، 2012

All Tied Up



In the late, late hours of the night, those which belong to a woman who blessed my days with sun light, I remember that tiny ribbon.
And just like a single thread that comes loose and with one gentle tug unravels into a much longer and seemingly never ending existence, this ribbon has come loose in my mind as the night was counting down the hours to leave as I lay curled under the light, floral quilt mommie gave me.
I do not know where it is now.
I have no recollection of losing it.
Yet its loss is a certainty I have no proof against.
Like this game I like playing, trailing a shred of thought to know what it was born of, I follow the ribbon backwards.
I tiptoe in the darkness around my memories to try to remember where I might have left it.
But it is here that the game is different. I don't need to know where it came from. The memory of her palms – which make miracles out of paper and glue – holding out my little book which she had just bathed in love, tied up in that ribbon is an image I know just as I know the detailed shape of her finger nails.
Flashes of tying it and untying it, and of leaving it lying to come and claim it again flutter against my eyes. They force me to that day when I think I last saw it.
Even now, I have no sense of where it could've gone. It's existence ended with the end of that memory.
It disappeared.
I tell myself there is no other explanation.
But it leaves me with memories of that morning, of cities, and of green running to keep up with us.
Racing trees, to keep up with me.
I was never a fast runner but I was always trying to reach the end to see if it would meet my expectation and my desire.
Similar to how I feel towards that unpleasant thread that threatens to unlock the tied up order of fellow threads and so ruining their perfection, I don't know how to break it. The fear of tearing things up holds my hands back and reminds me to get the scissors: lose threads are not to be taken so lightly.
Maybe memories don’t end up in boxes.
Perhaps they braid themselves into ribbons that vanish so we are preoccupied with their sudden disappearance rather than the shadow of the memories themselves.
All that remains now is a recollection of the sensation of its texture.
A small golden ribbon.
It's funny, how a thing so petty, so small, could keep someone up all night. Not in an attempt to find it.
No.
I just wanted to make sure it's safe.
Somewhere.

السبت، 18 أغسطس، 2012

بعد بُكره


اليوم تحدثنا عن نادين لبكي و كم هي جميلة و هل نقول أنها جميلة أم أتراكتيف.
شيء محير: كيف تصنف نادين لبكي على مقياس الجمال  الذي نحاول خلقه أنا و أختي التي تكبرني بعام و أختنا التي تصغرنا بعدة.
لم يشاهد أحد منا فيلمها الأول "سكر البنات" غيري. شاهدته من يومين في هذه الحالة التعيسة التي تجعلني قعيدة الكنبة بقماشها الجديد أشاهد أفلام و أجلس فقط دون فعل أي شيء غير النظر للشاشة.  أبديت اليوم رأئي إنه "مش عبقري". و أن نادين لبكي أتراكتيف و ليست جميلة لأسباب غير مقنعة لأختي الصغرى. و عبرت الأخت الأكبر عن تمانياتها لمشاهدة "هلأ لوين؟" و هي تجلس على الكنبة الأكبر من كنبتي.
و اليوم يوم عادي جداً من هذا النوع الجديد من الأيام: الأيام الخالية اشياء عدة. اليوم شاهدت فيلم "اميلي بولان". لأول مرة. أول مرة أشاهده. أنتهى أخر مشهد و كان قد إرتفع داخلي شعور بأن كل شيء على ما يرام و أنني بخير و أننا كلنا بخير و أنا الحياة تبتسم إبتسامة أودري توتو. و رقصت قليلاً على صوت إيلا فيتزجيرالد و غنيت قليلاً ل "أخيراً" و جلست على الكنبة: كنبة الأيام الجديدة التي لا يحدث فيها شيء إلا في رأسي.
و ببطء لا أعلم سرعته ذهب شعور بأن كل شيء على ما يرام.
أردت سماع موسيقى فذهبت للملف الذي به أغاني فيلم لبكي الأخير و ها أنا اسمعها.
أتذكر جملة حفظتها من الفيلم باللكنة اللبناني التي كنت أعاكس بها الفتى الذي أحببت دون أن أدري. أحاول أن أجد مكاناً لتلك الجملة ما بين الأغاني و لكنني أفشل فأعود لما هو أثقل.
غداً أول أيام العيد. و أنا أحب هذا العيد جداً غالباً لأنه يعلن إنتهاء رمضان و بدء أكل الكحك الذي بدأته أنا منذ أربع أيام.
في ذهني مشهد الجواب التي زورته أميلي لجارتها و نقعته في شاي و تركته يجف معلق بمشابك. و مع أنني أنتهت تواً من مشاهدة "آميلي" فإن المشاهد التي  تليه هذا المشهد أمام عيني كلها من فيلم نادين لبكي التي ليست جميلة و لكن أتراكتيف الذي شاهدته من أكثر من 7 شهور.
يذكرني الجواب بصورة رأيتها الأن للشيخ عماد عفت و بجانبها رسالة من زوجته و تسألت إذا ما خبزت الكعك هذا العام؟ و إذا كانت تحبه أم تفضل الغريبة؟
أتذكر مشهد البداية في الفيلم و النساء و الخلاء و الأسود و تأتيني صورة أم خالد سعيد. صورتها تأتيني دائماً عندما أشعر أنني أتخاذل مع القاهرة أو أهلها أو الثورة بأي شكل و ها هي تأتي الأن في ليلة العيد.
أتذكر مشهد موت الصبي و كيف بكيت في السينما – يوم تلو الأخر – على فراقه لأمه و أنا أعرف أن الأن تنتشر صورة على الفيس بووك بين مؤيدي الثورة و المتعاطفين مع الشهداء أنه "عيد شهيد" و أنه عيد أخر دون الحبيب أو الحبيبة.
و مشهد الحشيش الشهير يذكرني بالكعك الذي لم تخبزه أمي أبداً و لم أراه في حياتي إلا و هو مرشوش بسكر بودرة.
"بكره" الناس يصلون صباحاً ليكون ضحى بماء و طعام في الشارع. و بعد ذلك قبلات و سلامات و كعكات و أكواب شاي و زيارات و أكل كثير دون موعد معين.
و لكن ماذا عن "بعد بكره"؟ عندما يكون الكعك قد فقد طعمه و أنتهت الزيارات المثيرة للإهتمام و لا صلاة صباحاً قبل حرقة الشمس؟
لا أريد أن أعرف.
بقي أغنيتين و أنتهي من الإستماع إلى أغاني فيلم نادين لبكي (أتراكتيف و مش جميلة) الثاني مرة واحدة و أنا أحاول أن أتذكر إذا كان عندي موسيقي إميلي بولان في ملف ما مختبئة لوقت كهذا: وقت قليل متبقي من الساعات التي أجلسها على الكنبة بقماشها الجديد المزهر حتى أذهب للنوم لأنني لا أستطع النظر إلى الشاشة دقيقة أخرى.

الثلاثاء، 14 أغسطس، 2012

August Halo


It is a quiet morning in August. It is not cool but cooler than yesterday. It is a calm morning that began with the tears which I can't stop at certain moments.
I wonder at the weather. Perhaps God has listened to the prayers of all us suffocating in the heat, melting in the drops of the endless sweat that are racing each other on human skin.
It is a beautiful morning. No it is pleasant. It is pleasant and as usual you are still here as you have been at times, hesitating, aloof, a step or two behind.
You with everything that you are which I have no energy to think of and to list.
I can imagine the look on your face if you see me now. I look like I have not seen the sun for a while. Even though its summer I have been avoiding her. At these times, her anger parallels mine; it's just too much.
I can see the look you will give me when you see me now sunless and I will remember the toasts you gave to someone else's halo when mine had been put out.
I remember the moment I realized that it was not something you kept up your sleeve just for me. It really hurt.
I can see the look on your face if you could see me now sitting on a couch of flowers. Maybe you will grimace and maybe you won't. But in both cases you will ask where has she gone? And you won't notice that it's me sitting on that large petal.
It's a pleasant morning. That has gone off to become a noon and is getting closer to the time after that noon. The weather has broken its fierceness today. This leaves me with the hopes of a less angry sun so I can finally sit beneath her.
My halo needs to be recharged. It runs on solar energy but it has been too hot to be in her company.
Even the flowers are hiding in the shade.

الاثنين، 2 يوليو، 2012

Letter to Brooklyn, NY


Dear Suheir,

It is the first of July.

I don't know where you are now. I don't know you Suheir, but July brought you to me. You and July and Darwish and all the poems are entangled together in this intricate complex system of a month ending and another one beginning. A month that marks a fair division, a month of heat and restlessness.

I think I wanted to spend the first of July in bed.

I remembered your poem yesterday and I listen to it. I listen to the softness of the sheets and the rhythm of your words and I try to recall the beat of past days. I listen to your voice and I feel the weight of the 7th month of this holy year: it has arrived. And I think, Suheir, I wanted to spend it in bed reading Darwish.

I'm not as humanitarian as you are. I'm a bit more self-centered than that. A piece of the world is falling at the moment I am writing this, and another piece will fall at the moment I will post this to the universe and yet I can't see beyond the four corners of the bed I wanted to be in.

We get so involved, that's the problem maybe. We get so involved with ourselves that the pain of loss is much more than we can take. It pains us and moves our core. At this very moment someone is sharing pictures of Khaled Said's mother and her opinion of our new president. At this moment, dozens are being killed in Syria in the same recklessness in which I spend money and minutes as if there is a surplus of them. This hot morning in July, someone is waking up to the inerasable pain of having lost someone in the past year and a half and the knowledge that they will never see them again.

I hear their names sometimes Suheir and I go past their faces to that moment, a few days after they were killed, when I first heard it. It was said so smoothly, so honestly, a fluid confession of a fact, that I didn't believe it. I was not sure.

And here I am, at the beginning of July thinking of myself again. And thinking of how I would've loved to spend the first of July together in bed.

Just as I would've loved that no one dies. I would've loved to have spent the day with him.

Lover.

Your poem's softness makes me think of the craft of poetry. The way you say Darwish in your interviews, the way his poems make their way into yours. I read your poem about July and I remember the days I spent celebrating with my grandmother a day I had no idea what it stood for. Another nation's liberation. I liked the hotdogs. Root beer. And this July, of this holy year, is the first to pass me as I know its other name: Tammuuz.

In Arabic, we love double letters.

Night spills from bodies, Suheir.

It could be about any two lovers, couldn't it? It could be about the lovers in your poem, spending another nation's liberation day in between the sheets, scared of treading on an old buried mine. It could be about us, him and me. It could be about what was said, what wasn't. Do you think he read it? Do you think he is reading it today?

I don't know how to wrap up this letter to you which you will never get. If I ever meet you, this letter will not come up. It will not be part of our first meeting. But we will talk of poems. Your poems, the earth, Darwish lines, and trees Suheir. We will speak of trees.

Today as I walked by the Nile early in the morning, there was a man sweeping. It was early but the heat was sweating already. This man's brown figure was bent over a broom; it was very wide. Again and again he pushed what I came to see as wilted flower petals from a tree much taller than us.

A man stood near him monitoring his meticulous aggression against those leaves whom the heat had already lumped up.

I passed, lighter in weight but heavy with other things, I passed the sweeping Suheir. Now, at this moment as I remember the smell of flowers as I passed, I hold a grudge against memory for remembering.

But we haven’t spent the first of July together. We're spending it there between lines of Darwish's poems, oblivious of your poem because his poem speaks more to our pain. I told you earlier; I'm a bit more self-centered than you are.

Yassameen

Double letters are more intense. The smell in my memory which has gone into my blood through my pores is not of jasmine, but of roses. It is because of it that sometimes I feel I cry rosewater.
I need to stop writing now. I always end up writing long letters. I will just end it with a memory that didn't happen. Reading Darwish to him on a bed – maybe a few rose petals. And a poem.

lover –
let us begin a month
on paper which is not lined
blank
so we can tattoo both
our names
on it
daaq
and beneath it
tammuuz
lest we forget
we could not begin
july together

Thank you for listening. Thank you for the poems, they are light.

I'll see you around Suheir. I'll see you around.

Peace and love,
Zainab

الاثنين، 25 يونيو، 2012

We're Still Here


We're Still Here

            Thought.

I don't think we have ever celebrated your birthday. It's a shame really. Do you think it's too late to start? We could celebrate it there, if they aren't killing some more people next December.

            Memory.

I still remember you with your banner, and your red polo shirt telling me to meet you by KFC. I don't think it was there that we became so close, maybe earlier. I don't remember.

            Desire.

I don't want this to be just rambling, I want it to be a "beautiful text" like you say. But the more I think of how beautiful I want it, the more difficult it gets. So I will just write your own testimony, I don't have one of my own. My only testimony is that I'm still breathing – but that's human biology.

Tahrir November 2011

Your phone call wakes me up. You're there, I know you are. You ask me and I tell you – unashamed – "in bed". You're worried. You ask me breathless, with the sound cracking behind you, "is this right?" And in our own way, which is like leaves falling into the pages of a book, I understand. I tell you "Yes, it is. There is no other right" but you already know that.

Tahrir December 2011

You stand between the people, mesmerized by the warmth they give. Stupefied by the heat of the blood. The clock becomes 12 and another day has passed. I count the days, I add new ones, days with you around me. "He was turning 23 this month," you say, "like me". I shut this sentence out, I keep on counting days.

Tahrir January 2012

"Why don't we die? Why are we still living?"
I have no answer. I look at you and change the subject.

Testimony

We are still living because I do not know what to do with days without you.  That's my only explanation. 

الخميس، 21 يونيو، 2012

Writing Testimony


Why do I write?

I remember the first story I wrote; it was called Butterfly and it was so dramatic – I was a drama queen from an early age. The story that followed it was also dramatic. Conclusion: I am a drama queen par excellence – or however you say.

I enjoy telling stories.

I love it. It is my favorite part of a social gathering: telling this story and animating it and doing all the voices. These were probably early signs of my love for acting. I just only recently realized that my passion is theater.

But before that, writing took up my world. It still does, but in different manners. I'm talking about this because I'm trying to understand why I write.

I enjoy telling stories.

However, it is not only that. After all my energy has been thrown all over the place, after I've laughed, cried, loved, and done everything in a period of 48 hours, I retreat to myself.

I realize that I have to sit with me.

I don't really like doing that. Me is not always the best of company. And so writing became the language in which I tried to communicate with myself.

Now, when I say writing, what am I talking about? I'm talking about it all – the jotting down of anything from that curly head of mine to any other surface – paper or key board.

In the past year and even earlier, I have not been able to sit and write a whole large unit of narration like I used to in my earlier years of writing. Writing took on a new path for me. I was no longer just interested in prose and in just writing in Arabic. My Arabic sucks by the way. But I started realizing that it was a gift to be able to just write anything, in any language and in any form and feel lighter.

At the end of anything that I've written, I feel that I've paid part of my dues to myself.

Now, I am engrossed in a type and genre of writing I know shit about: playwriting. But the challenge is remarkably refreshing at times and at others is just downright depressing.

I am lazy.
I am distracted.
I am emotional.
I am dramatic.
I am indecisive.
I am wordy.
I am a writer.

There, I've said it. But, then I always have this habit of beating around the bush – not because I don't want to be honest but because I probably have an advanced case of the hyperactivity AADD syndrome. Which without, I do not believe I would have the energy or stamina to write all over the place the way I do.

So Zainab, why do you write?

I don't know.

I think I say these three words more than any other ones in both languages I speak.

It's something which I cannot separate from myself; it is the language in which I try to understand myself. After trying for years to write only in Arabic, I realized that it was not the language that was the issue because the act of writing itself was an act of finding my own language and finding myself.

It’s such a cliché – that you write because you have to, because you need to know who you are: because you cannot not write. But unfortunately, just as I am a drama queen, the cliché is a fact and beautiful one for that matter.

I am lucky to have something so special that no one has: a language that is just mine. This language comes out through my writing. And even though people read what I write, what I want to say to myself comes out only in the process of writing and not the text that comes out – whatever shape it takes. So that I have a very own language which only Zainab and I can speak. And it keeps us together, for better or for worse.

That's really something, you've got to admit.

21st of June 2012

الخميس، 24 مايو، 2012

12



Place: Coffee shop in Cairo                                                    Time: 5 pm


Cairo 2011
z: I  called you randomly. I was close to where I knew you have been living for the past 5 years.
a: I didn't pick up
z: I called you twice
a: I don't even remember what I was doing
Cairo 2005
z: I took them to that place where they make great burgers
a: I love that place
z: you got me addicted
a: I didn't even recognize you  that day
z: you had started smoking
a: You didn't look like the you I know
Cairo 2007
z: we added each other on facebook
a: "Mabrouk"
z: I didn't answer
a: I thought you had been offended
z: I think I was
Cairo 2002
a: we weren't even 12
z: I don't think we had hit puberty
a: we hadn't
z: what was it that brought us so close?
a: how could you forget?
z: the music
a: yes, the music
Cairo 2012
z: Do you remember me?
a: Your handwriting hasn't changed, I would know it anywhere
Cairo 2004
z: The guitar lessons
a: you never took it seriously
z: you took it all the way
Cairo 2011
a: I called you back
z: I was in Tahrir that day, my first time
a: I was scared something would happen to you
Cairo 2002
z: I wrote you letters
a: I didn't even see them till a year later
z: I can't believe you didn't look in the envelope
a: I just thought that the envelope was the letter
z: I loved your handwriting
Cairo 2012
a: I still remember your handwriting. I know you. I know you like no one else does. How many years was it habibty? I would do anything for you. You called me, asked me for a favor. It was just a little bit of music; I would play for you anywhere. You haven't changed; at least not to me. You are still who you are. You are still who you have been to me.
Cairo 2005
z: You sent me a new track of yours online.
a: I took a lot of drugs then
z: you girlfriend added me on Facebook
a: God she was intense
Cairo 2011
z: The day I called you I couldn't demonstrate. I just walked around. It was cool. The trees were calm. I went to church. That large cathedral in Zamalek close to the Nile. I sat there at the center during Mass and I felt I was in a painting. The stained glass held me there; I was taken in by the colors. Then the music. It brought you. I called you
Cairo 2010
a: I thought about you at times
z: You must've crossed my mind
Cairo 2011 and 2012
 a: I was moving fast
z: I was tired
a: I had just arrived, there were so many people
z: I was moving out to meet with others to bring in food and first aid
a: The path where we met was actually empty for such a crowd
z: It was, I spotted you right away
a: Your hug, always
z: You're too tall now for a proper one
Cairo 2011
a: We had coffee
z: Yes, I felt so weird that day
a: I felt so happy to be sitting with you after so long
z: You moved just the way you did when you were 12
Cairo 2012
a: I don’t sing, but for you…
z: Habibi, it has been too long. Seeing you hugging the guitar was like being hit with a shower of memories which had not happened
a: Hey Mr. Tambourine Man/Play a song for me/I'm not sleepy/And there's no place I'm going to
z: I was so proud of you, so proud of who you had become.
a: Hey Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me, in the Jingle Jangle morning I come following you
z: I was proud of how we had grown
a: I love you awi
z: I love you too, so much
a: Habibti, call me when you're back
z: I will habibi, but one day, let's go together