gypsy worlds

70

Roma Musa Obaid

From Republic Street, first Faisal

Between Sharif and Saudi Al-Sanadili Streets

Corona time, fireworks and firecrackers

and drugs

Roma Musa Obaid

Wooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooood

Zen.. Zen.. Zen.. the sound of the new, gentle saw, playing all the folklore songs that humanity inherited from a long time ago, all the members of the dance teams looking for something new to dance to its rhythms.

Beck.. Beck.. Beckia.. calls for the old buyer from the people of the road to fix it and sell it in the big weekly markets, such as the Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday markets, which are frequented by all the people of the three desert oases, near and far, because of their cheap price

I sleep with my eyes open, and the chainsaw belts move many images between which I cannot find a connection, and I do not define a single feature. I take a deep breath of hot, dry air, trying to find a painting to decipher, and the zen of the saw, which spreads within me the joy of happy rhythms, helps me to paint some aspects of the image with fiery iron fragments. I reassure the insistent Bikia seller, and I will soon sell him the painting, which will be completed by the flying fire.

Woosh..Woosh..Woosh..Zen..Zen..Zen..Beek..Bik..Bikya.. my eyelids are about to send signals of his dear sleep, so I push them away, and my eyes remain wide open, looking at the middle of the painting, which seems dim due to the accumulation of sounds The sharp and thick, which will not appeal to the Bikia seller who prefers bright and cheerful colors until it finds its way to the hands of his customers in the neighborhoods he frequents to sell his goods or waits to display them in the large weekly markets.

Black, the master of colors, overlaps with red, green, and yellow. It imposes its power to diminish all the colors it absorbs.. The sound of the woe, the zen, and the beck gets louder, so my eyes are unable to see.. The eyelids decide to drop, so they fall. Slaves.

 

A short story by / Mahmoud Hassan Farghaly

Member of the Writers Union

Member of the Syndicate of Film Professions

mahmoudhassanfarghaly@yahoo.com

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