In the early morning of every day, I wake up like a madman looking for her voice, and her voice is only the hissing of the breeze. I feel that I am in the vocabulary of the language that lives under her eyelids, as if I am at the beginning of the first word to write a new novel, which is the theme of its events, the theme of its chapters, and the value of its conclusion that It has no end except in the chest, the gasp of the morning meeting when I hear the creak of the door of her room announcing the release of her distinctive fragrance, and she broadcasts in the ether the language of sacred beauty in the conscience of the place, and she breathes into my heart the agony of the first sight, and she urges my feelings of optimism in the morning, as she sprays on my heart The syllables of a secret song that was not uttered by an artist, and whose verses were not revealed by a poet. It is the poem pampered with melody and imprisonment. I look at the sky through the sparkle of her eyes.
My butterfly, my love, the apple of my eye, the pleasure of my heart, inhabits me as if it were the breaths in my chest, seizes my being as if it were the breeze rising from the folds of existence, takes me to a world where there is only her, holds my horses and leaves for me, to where lies the initial thirst, for the advent of the last cluster, female Crowned with the softness of cheeks, and the prosperity of feminine features, I feel that I own the world, I feel that I control existence, I feel that I am spreading my hands on all four sides, and I am riding the dream horse and passing through ages.
My butterfly, in consciousness is Eve, who sent me down to the sky to pick a star and walk in the fields of joy, like a child who receives the first gift, so he begins to meditate on it, and a transparent smile rises on his lips. Morning and in my joy dwells in history, and the terrain of the first eagerness when the woman in the white shirt said, Congratulations, a girl came to you.
At that time, the mind consciously arose of the importance of having between the walls of the house a drop of rain that wets the heart, and fills the surroundings with the salt of life.
At that time, I realized that life without a female of your loins is a dry river, a valley without cultivation.
At that time, I realized why my companion to the maternity hospital told me to name her Fatima, blessed by this name.
My butterfly came, and filled my life with the scent of joy, surrounded me with the morals of sacred femininity, surrounded me with the prosperity of the breezes falling from God’s sky, to the land of His noble creatures.
My butterfly has grown today, the locks of her hair have grown, her braid has the meaning of the night, her eyelashes have the eyelashes of the mighty poem, and her gaze has the radiance of the morning woven with the songs of birds, the wailing of pigeons, and the narration of birds dozing on a branch and charging.
God, how beautiful life is, and it gives you the last cluster of dreams you have long waited for.
Thank you, Om Fatima, thank you to every woman who works hard, to light up the hearts of others.
