The Key

The Key

Palestinian Key

It waits at the bottom of a trunk

At the bottom of a drawer, it waits.

It grows old, it grows old

Passing from hand to hand

From gnarled hands that unfold

Faded cloth to unveil history

To destined hands of grandchildren,

The generation in between lost

Lies waiting

Under the earth.

Different foods, different smells

Waft through distant kitchens

The walls of the houses are hearing

Different words, different laughter.

The joys and sorrows are unlike

Those of old that lie waiting

Behind memories.

Just for now lives lived

In just for now houses

Stay warm with inherited stories.

The dreams of old grow cold

As just for now turns from weeks

To months to years

And a century of just for now

Lies waiting

Around the corner of history books.

Different hands open the windows every morning

Different feet walk upon the floors

Different eyes look out on the horizon

In the distance.

In the distance, eyes that have grown old

With waiting, gaze back,

Seeing beyond the borders

Beyond the distance

Beyond the history,

Windows and kitchens and floors

That once were familiar,

Seeing the doors of Palestine

Waiting

For the old familiar keys.

By: Marwa Elnaggar — Writer

Also, Read: “Dear Assad…”- Poem – Creative Writings

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