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Akram Alkatreb -Syria-


The house (1)

I did not forget the house. It remained as it was,

Even the sounds of rustling branches with vague sighs of tenderness falling and breaking on the terrace becoming yellow leaves, my mother would broom at dawn.

The House (2)

I like the word “House “ I could not find it for a long time. The house I used to draw, with a small river, on the geography notebook.

The House (3)

A word of tears between the two covers of a book.


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