On Fridays the sun shone,
like it never would on any other.
I would have called it 'Sun Day',
but we rested on on that day,
while the sun kissed our skins.
On Fridays mosques' voices were more vibrant.
People left their flip-flops at the door.
Some said it was tradition.
Some said it was to cool their feet,
on the marble floor,
in a place of prayer.
On Fridays, cars honked greetings
and people smiled back.
They flocked at markets,
and hugged and kissed,
and compared prices.
On Fridays tea was always hot.
Under the sun, our Istikans oozed of brown,
warm to the touch,
sweet as freshly handpicked dates.
On Fridays we watched the evening news
and reflected.
War after war,
we expected
better days…
On Fridays today, under the sun,
they slaughter women,
and rape children.
On Fridays today, mosques turn into infernos,
and the rubber of the flip-flops burn the nostrils
of the bodies on the charred marble floors...
On Fridays now, the streets are quiet.
The silence bites at the ears of travelers,
who move in the shadows unseen,
praying to reach home whole...
On Fridays now, people drink dark coffee.
From one memorial to its neighbor,
the bitter taste becomes the custom.
On Fridays now, people fear the evening news.
War after war…,
they wonder if they have seen the worst…
yet…
