Muhammad A. Al Mahdi
I write like Oum Koulsoum and Edith Piaf sing.
It has nothing to do with me.
When sadness appears, song enters my heart.
Reflection chooses its mirror.
The mirror, conversely, cannot choose its reflection.
My heart is like the voice of Saliha; a slave with a veiled face obscured by marks, scars, tattoos of adornment and protection.
My words are the Master's, not mine.
So are my doubts.
I doubt. It is true. For my words shall never be what they describe, for re more...