Roses are red,
violets are blue,
I miss you,
I miss spending time with you.

The memories keep buzzing
above your couch
and dance with cadence, within the infinite
path of the immortal past
looking for your scent.

They know you are there,
they know you are near.
Absent still are your petals.

Before your couch I kneeled,
softly held a flashing memory.
It was then I saw the sea
calmly swaying and rhythmically,
like a golden daffodil field.

You were there,
by the shore, where
you and I once sat.
You looked at me,
then at the sea,
“I wish I were that drowning sun,”
you told me,
“tightly embracing the horizon,
flying into the abyss of freedom.”

You leaned forward,
as the gentle summer breeze
kept caressing your face,
while the scattering sun rays
kept speeding towards your face
in a neck-to-neck race.
Which will be the first
to land upon your cheek with ease?
Which will be the first
to splash your black eyes
with the color of the honeybees?

Suddenly you pulled your legs away,
interrupting your ankles’ dance
with the chaotic white lace.

It was then the buzzing stopped,
it was then I heard some clicks ––
and yet I know those nervous clicks.
I looked to the right,
there was your bed.
It laid midst the wicked dark,
but darkness is the least I dread.

Yet I knew by then
that the summer went.
I knew by then
that the agony began.

Towards your room,
I took two steps,
I scrabbled about.
Following the clicks,
I reached your door,
and your fragrant scent
enfolded me,
and through my veins it roamed.

I gently opened your door,
which, as always, was left ajar —
a space that was enough
for a glance from you,
a space that was enough
for a touch from your hand
that would stick to mine
while you are afar.

It was then I saw your pen,
clicking with a certain pattern:
Three short ones
three long ones.
And yet again,
three short ones,
next to a daffodil’s upper petal,
that looked so pale yet so shiny,
like the sun’s reflection
on an old golden metal.
Dark spots now invade
its crescent-shaped blade
leaving it with nothing
but the need to slowly free its soul.

I held it between my hands,
I rested its wings on my thumb.
Go slowly, my sweet daffodil,
go slowly to free yourself.
Spring is home,
and to spring, you must fly.

No flower should endure
such agony, such misery.
My dear, please be sure,
You’re eternally lodged in my memory.

Soon after, the clicks stopped.
That was when
I knew it had gone,
that was when
the winter had come.

Under the soft drizzles,
I took my sweet flower
to the shore to bury it
right in the same spot
where you and I once sat.

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I know you are there,
I know you hear me too.
So please tell me,
what solace will there be
for a man who buried
the flower of his life.

Editor’s note: Samar El-Farra, the aunt of Qasem Waleed El-Farra, died after she was denied permission to travel to Egypt to get adequate medical treatment.