Ithikreeni Da’iman
Fajr finds a choir of morning birds serenading me.Would that I could trade them for the velvet cooing of the mother doveWho lives on my window ledge in Syria, four stories up. “Ithikreeni Da’iman,” calls Damascus“Remember me always”And I do. I long for the soft invitation of the athaan at fajrFloating, beckoning on clear morning
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