For my mother Noor, poet, whose verses I borrow

I hang on to the hem of her dress like a child hanging
On to the string of an immovable kite
I climb her braid like a squirrel climbing a hazelnut tree
In the late afternoon we jump from one world to another
we play in the wind
like sparrows that opened the door to the cage
She teaches me
names of flowers
the seasons of rain
love of our country
I teach her
stubbornness and mischief . . .
We share one apple and innumerable dreams
We paint a paradise of questions on the face of the desert
We spray each other with the water of the mirage
accompany a fleeting doe