Diary Of A Seventy-Year-Old Girl

Here we were, here we played, and there we stayed awake, and that jasmine is under our window, and the glass veranda is still as we left it, carrying our memories between its walls, and its windows overlooking the city, repeating our songs and poems, hearing the echo of our laughter, our whispers, our conversations, and my mother's stories that she never gets tired of, and the many poems she has memorized. , , The veranda also hears the anecdotes and jokes of Abu Nawas, Harun al-Rashid and his wife Zubaydah, Uncle Omar's jokes and his boisterous laughter, Samia's melodious voice reciting old stanzas and roles, and finally, hearing our collective voices singing Fairouz's song harmoniously: Our folks returned bringing back the old nights. The old loved ones returned trying to control us, My God It has been such a long time.