The butterfly that entered the kitchen window
hovered in all the rooms for days,
bumped against the ceiling every time it dreamed of air.
and its pain rubbed against the dim light of the original lampshade.
The butterfly bent on sleeping
to the sound of trees rustling on television
at the edge of dreams in folk songs
no longer remembers the color of the sky
nor can it tell a wall and space apart
so it distinguishes mornings from a nostalgia in the heart
and tames its longings next to the plastic saplings
in the corner of the living room …
The butterfly that recently was extremely happy to commit suicide
diving into a bottle of apple vinegar
long-open on top of the refrigerator
with these words written on its side
“Stored materials may be perishable
if you leave the door open”.
Every year they take a group photo
they’ve been doing it for fifteen years,
every year they read their histories again
between joy, sadness, aging, metamorphosis and obesity,
presence and absence.
Every year they stop in front of this autobiography
notice a brand change in one
and the impact of political news on another
and the symptoms of pregnancy and the results of the football championship
and those who have not appeared in the recent photos
those who are gone and whose space is left
like the hand of the photographer shaking
every year without the need for many words.
A photo of the old house
I’m looking for our old house on Google Earth
small, it looks like a scar on a beehive
a parked car, I think it belongs to my brother
when he came back from a long trip
to tell us something about the concept of longing ..
A new house and a mosque
in the fenced land that used to be a soccer field …
The farm has become a big supermarket
because birds no longer fall on their fellow birds..
The terraces are clearer
even on smart devices…
With each new update
by enlarging the screen between thumb and forefinger
I can precisely make out my colorful kite
still stuck in the satellite
I can fly it again with two fingers ..
And run staring at the sky.
A grandfather shared his wisdom with his eldest son.
His son passed it on equally to males and females …
Wisdom that now flutters high up there
on their path of life …
The boys who have hung the photos of their father
behind their large offices
and at the entrance to the hall!
Handing down ready -made wisdom
to their children and grandchildren
the girls who repeated such wisdom
in a beautiful melody
singing it by weaving the threads of wool.
Wisdom that clung to the walls of the house
the dolls have pronounced it
and it grew like grass in the courtyard!
Wisdom now stands
like a huge fetish
at the door of life.
Mohamed Kheder, Saudi poet. He has been publishing books and poetry collections since 2001. Among his collections “From the first apple” and most recently “Under a cloud”.