Farrah Sarafa

Farrah Sarafa

 

 

 

 







Palestine Fig

 

Inner worlds lined brown like the earth,

tinted gold like divine mirth,

the occupied race of people plead

for an outside light to dissolve their worry  

into the dead sea.

 

Dense bubbles, sugar grains condense

like caramel apple heating

under my hot tongue. I imagine

soldiers’ threats induce a similar

effect on their poor children who have long been

constrained to sacrifice

 

their fame, knowledge and skill. Sweet fig flesh

that grips wrinkled outer skin

like old native man’s hands made hallow

from fear, disdain, longing to cry peace by tears

formed from the pain of clouds

 

waiting to be tasted and felt.

Pains produced from sweet-thirsty twigs,

resting on the earth, come together,

tighten, roll, and shrink into small balls called seeds-

reproduce from the hungers, contempt and needs

of Palestinian

 

souls. They swim in the memories

of their buried ancestors,

whose lives, disintegrated, nourish

fig tree soils, coalesce to become seeds

that constitute fig fruit.

 

Hearts gold- earth speckled, firm flavor,

a seeded promise that you

will savor the Arabian air

that you will inhale when you eat a fig

from my ancestors.

 

 

 

 

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