Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
Upon the windy crest of Solukra Ağac,
where the air is sharp, cool, and pure,
my sister’s garden breathes its quiet song.
There, the tomatoes rise from earth untouched,
firm of body, full of flesh,
their taste a deep echo upon the tongue,
a truth that lingers.
Once, in Ismailia, we found their kin—
for a fleeting month they lived among us.
We bought them by the crate,
their flavor a marriage of tartness and sweet,
a fleeting miracle of clay, not sand.
And so, my friends of Ismailia,
if ever you find again those fruits I praise,
keep them for me.
For one who has tasted such a gift
will never make peace with the lesser kind.
