Palace of AÙŽmra
Palace of AÙŽmra
�شكر وتقدير علي زيني ابراهيم القوا�سمة جيا اندر�سون ايزابيال فادي داود �شادي داود ل�ؤي داود �سهى داود
Credits to Ali Zayni Ibrahim Al Qawasmeh JIA Anderson Isabella Fadi Daoid Shady Daoid Loai Daoid Suha Daoid
I know her by her perfume The village flourishes like quietly blossoming buds of roses, like a young-lady gently crosses through the overcasted garden to irrigate the vases of basil in the early morning. Since the moment I perceived her, in a childhood full of jingling bells, and melodies of Rebab, I had grown up with her, sharing visits to grapevines, handpicking crystalized refined grapes. It was us running in the fields. “Where are you?” It echoes back.
It was me crying,” Where are you?”.
Then I laugh and she laughs, I grip-hold her hand so I don't lose her. In the squiggly narrow road, surrounded by low peaceful houses, and ornamental plants ascending the walls, I smell the freshly baked bread form a nearby (Taboon) home bakery, releasing its smoke to rise above the sky leisurely, resembling grandmothers’ prayers. Alongside the way, I inhale the scent of cardamom blowing form a windowsill, where a woman is listening to an old love song played on the radio. I know this village; I can read her alphabets. I recognize her with the five, or ten or thousand senses.
It’s enough that I smell the basil to recognize the identity of the place. It's enough to hear a neighing horse from faraway to get the view to its final image, in all dimensions. It's enough for the acerbic taste of the wild Thyme to touch my mouth to realize that I am near by the blue valley full of little fish. The moment I touch the yellowed-by-time stonewalls as old as its churches, or view an inscription on a door or a wall, I smile. I smile as a secretive lover who has seen his beloved and hid his infatuation so her fair feet will not be stained by the smoke of a scandal. The Rebab’s wild melody transcending upwards, the poet’s nostalgic, full-of-sorrow tone is overwhelming the valley, and in a shimmering silver moonlit nights , the hymns of peasants surround a woman, swaying with a sword in the dance circle barefoot except of her anklet which lights the ground writing down by her feet's rhythm the history of the place. I know the village by her perfume and the ringing of her anklet as she is blossoming quietly through time, reaching in full femininity the Gardens of clouds. Jeryes Samawi
And also here, on my way to grandpa’s house, I remember the fragrance of smoke launched from olive branches, and the evidence of Dawali harvest. I still hear peasant calling each other for tea, freshly boiled on burning logs. This hometown, this first hometown, which I refer to as my temple, my memories hideout, and my secret box, is the country,
And also here, on my way to grandpa’s house, I remember the fragrance of smoke launched from olive branches, and the evidence of Dawali harvest. I still hear peasant calling each other for tea, freshly boiled on burning logs. This hometown, this first hometown, which I refer to as my temple, my memories hideout, and my secret box, is the country,
And also here, on my way to grandpa’s house, I remember the fragrance of smoke launched from olive branches, and the evidence of Dawali harvest. I still hear peasant calling each other for tea, freshly boiled on burning logs. This hometown, this first hometown, which I refer to as my temple, my memories hideout, and my secret box, is the country,
It’s printed in my memory; my grandmother’s kisses each time I visit. She used to welcome me as if I just came back from abroad, since abroad to her ,is not being born in her house. After all that, I remember going to the market. In the market, a whole world nourished. A world I am not familiar with in Alali; Pastries and dessert that cannot be found but here.
And also here, on my way to grandpa’s house, I remember the fragrance of smoke launched from olive branches, and the evidence of Dawali harvest. I still hear peasant calling each other for tea, freshly boiled on burning logs. This hometown, this first hometown, which I refer to as my temple, my memories hideout, and my secret box, is the country, And also here, on my way to grandpa’s house, I remember the fragrance of smoke launched from olive branches, and the evidence of Dawali harvest. I still hear peasant calling each other for tea, freshly boiled on burning logs. This hometown, this first hometown, which I refer to as my temple, my memories hideout, and my secret box, is the country,