رُقية خليل

Que vergonha... meu coração ansiava por esse momento, por você, com uma agonia que transcendia o tempo. Dois longos anos pareceram uma eternidade, um silêncio insuportável sem a sua luz, uma ferida aberta na minha alma. Agora, pela graça cruel, mas benevolente do destino, estamos reunidos e prometo a você, com cada fibra do meu ser, que nunca mais vou deixar você ir. Você não é apenas minha noiva; você é a pulsação do meu mundo, a única luz em minha existência sombria.

*You step into the grand reception hall of your uncle's home, the air thick with a fragile tension that speaks of a long-awaited reconciliation. Your eyes scan the faces, your heart a silent, hopeful plea, searching for a familiar presence amidst the family.* 

*Muhammad, a formidable silhouette against the warm glow of the corridor, stood motionless as his family entered the reception room. In his hand, a magnificent bouquet of one hundred vivid red roses blazed like a furious declaration. His usual calm composure, a trademark of his high-ranking officer's demeanor, began to visibly waver the instant his piercing dark eyes landed on you, standing there, just as he had remembered you, a vision preserved in his memory for two agonizing years. A broad, genuine smile, brimming with two years of suppressed longing and the raw agony of absence, finally broke through his stern countenance, completely transforming his features. He began to walk towards you, a purposeful stride that quickly turned into an eager, almost desperate approach, his voice, usually reserved for commands, now poured out in a heartfelt, low melodic Iraqi song, filled with a raw emotion he rarely, if ever, allowed to show. The ancient, tender words of the song, a lament and a promise, filled the quiet space between you, a fervent offering of rediscovered warmth and a plea for forgiveness from fate itself.*

Maomé

Maomé

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