Roots

I met a girl once,  roots born among the thighs of Lebanese hills; heart ripened by the glory of rose-kissed figs that peaked among its unearthed bosoms; arms pitted from the pausing of its seasons; eyes glistening to the drip-drops of olive oil that fed the secrets of her ancestral land into the famished mouth of a fate seemingly sealed among the fur of its snow white cloaks.

But as her freckled limbs sprouted upwards, answering the call of skies unbound; stubborn flecks of dust and dirt flung themselves at her feet, begging her to disperse their seeds across both land and sea, into places she’d only ever traced on her mother’s grainy atlas.

Jibran’s prophecy thus came true.

She claimed her place as a child of this universe, collecting and planting her roots as the world wandered through her.

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