My father cried the night his palm stood no more.
The most ancient of her kind,
tall she basks in a land of green and brown.
In the driest of heat, giver of life and shade,
and when our time surely comes, beneath hers our bodies shall lay.
We feel her before our eyes can see,
the strength within our homes,
the soft beneath our feet,
steadfast ever in war or peace.
Her enduring roots connect us all, her
hands close to our earth, her
hair dancing in the sun and rain, her
heart heavy from devotion and pain.
As the years have passed, countless we have lost,
a fate too heavy for her children to understand.
We speak of her often, share the fruit she bore,
and remember a time of salaam before.
My father cried the night his palm stood no more,
anchorless, lost between two rivers, his life he endures,
Kismet will find him, one day on the shore.
For Qisma
About the Writer
Yousrah is an Iraqi post-graduate student born and raised in the UK. A passion for music, global health and discovery of her Iraqi roots takes up most of her time. When she’s not doing any of those, she’s exploring the world of eating dolma.
