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There is Nothing Left but the Bruised Sky

By Shakiba Hashemi

home is where you keep                      your memories
every laughter and every sigh
between its solid blank walls

you can retrace             the first steps
of your baby brother                             in the hallway
and smell the aroma    of your grandmother’s felafel
in the air
                       ghosts of happy days
                       every damp corner
of your house

and when bombs obliterate               all the buildings
around you
and the blood trail
                                  maps the borders of your town
when there is no blue dome left
                                  for the weary doves
to land on
                                  and no minaret
for the wandering clouds                  to hover above
when there is nothing left
                                                but the bruised sky



and your house               burns in an eternal inferno
your memories
           will scatter with the wind
like fairy dust

                             and settle
somewhere far away
                                            on the sun-kissed branches
of an olive tree


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