Memories of Home...
Dusk... Red earth... The sound of a water pump in the distance... A dog barking... A melodious call to prayer echoes across the valley... The pool is still... The last traces of the golden sun vanish behind a purple mountain...
Dusk... Red earth... The sound of a water pump in the distance... A dog barking... A melodious call to prayer echoes across the valley... The pool is still... The last traces of the golden sun vanish behind a purple mountain...
Maysaloon's poem is less a story than a series of small snapshots, each one separated by ellipses, as if the speaker is pausing to let a memory surface. We get dusk, red earth, a water pump humming far away, a barking dog, a call to prayer drifting over a valley. Nothing happens in the usual sense.
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