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A mythic garden
Siwar Bouabana
It was that serene time when the last morsel was thrust down the throttles, the staid laughter was struck from the hearts. The consanguinity was not the only string that bounded them to the very same rickety walls. Hostage to the restless dream, they were all dying for a close glimpse of that mythic garden that had all the city wide-eyed in their sleepless nights, passing its intricate mystery through the prism of their endless speculations and writing down a history that fits perfectly the short insight of each.
With afire eyes, our little spies sneaked out of the window mere moments before the sky would lay its silver moon bare at full. Faraway, their tiny feet touched a bleak ground, staggered to a fallout three-tiered fountain centering white marble. As their eyes were wandering in the sprawling desert with its entangled herbicides that was longing for a long rain to quench the mourning over its old merry days.
Because who ever knew that this garden, once a lush paradise, would someday turn into a grisly hell? A few steps ahead, a true enigma had the unfamiliar faces puzzled : a lamp post standing by the endpoint, lofty in defiance of the running-out hourglass, having its black colour obliterated into shades of gray. As if it has forever been mighty against the world, grappling with the bricks long-trown at it. Yet still firm with its flickering light vowing to aye shine, but never blind anyone.
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