الجذر

Once upon a turbid heart, throbbing beneath the morning dew, a seed of hope metamorphosed into an azure goddess. Her gaze sparkled with deep-rooted faith. Her raven tresses worn in an endless plait. Her spine, an apricot blossom garland.

And there she slumbered.

The heart was surrounded by a flowing substance, the soul.
The goddess pierced the heart's lining with her hands; she sank her nails into the soul, her fingers clung to it and put down roots.

The soul diminished: it lost its spark, its valour, its will to fly.

The apricot blossom withered when the soul faded away. And it started to soak up the goddess's pernicious dreams.

The heart remained mute, paralysed.

The goddess was a dormant volcano, writhing in her dreams, awaiting the awakening.

I wonder when it will come. Whether it will come.