Early in the morning two squabs on a window-post cleaned the feathers
the wind started to shake boughs of the pears tree and the four unripe
fruits were knocking on the glass to open the gates of my memories
Samir brought croissants from the bakery still hot and evaporating steam
filled up the room of my grandmother we use to sleep during weekend
almost no one could see what would become of us in two different
Countries that none had sea or any sacred water to wash our sins- all
of them. Inherited, made up, made off and running ones we did solely
jointly and shared what we in that time called celebration of youth