#arab poetry
Was she really a woman? Fatima contemplates, as her grandmother walks inside the tent, covered in a large dark-blue garment that absorbs every atom in the air, and carries the vastness of the desert with it. The desert’s landscape is only a natural extension of the incomparable space she controls; no human cell ever moved freely under her watch. Grandmother Hakima is the great demon. The tent is akin to an ant she steps on wherever she walks. She clasps…
