A Moving Grave
Mayedatul Mutahharah
In the distance, the first blush of dawn bleeds against the soft sky. The morning sun climbing up the horizon, illuminating the land in restless shadows. The sun stands like a role model, posing as if it were on a magazine cover. The first light rays dance across my face making my unshed tears glisten with hope.
An aroma of fresh morning dew and poppies lingers in the air. Blood red flowers hug my ankles while they sing to me in hushed whispers – *”In Flanders Fields…”* a pink lonely colour paints itself onto my cheeks. A stubborn tear slips from my eye’s grasp – running along the forgotten tracks of my most vulnerable moments. The gentle grass caress my legs with understanding.
Around me, whispers of longing souls and unspoken words carry themselves to my ears. Trembling grave stones stand weary, guarding the beloved corpses’ below. Faint wails and cheers dominate the atmosphere. A symbol of their new journey.
“What is the other side like?” I murmur to myself.
“Just wait and see, my love,” the wind mumbles back. I tense. My ears perk up. My eyes dart around with anticipation.
*It couldn’t have been…*
The wind brushes past me – a familiar presence within it – leaving a kiss on my lips. I shiver.
….*him*…