LAYLA SALMA

After the Shade Fell

It once grew quietly, 
between stones and stories, 
a sky that chose 
to bend low for us. 

Arms wide, it caught the sun  
before it burned, spread calm  
like a lullaby at night. 

We gathered, rhythms  
of bare feet and laughter, 
sipped dusk from low-hanging 
fruit that tasted like forever, 
and helped us remember. 

Time paused beneath its breath, 
and even the dust sat 
gently. 

But one morning, 
the light didn’t come. 
Something unseen arrived, 
not to prune, 
but to erase. 

Now the place hums 
empty. No shadow falls. 

Only thirst and longing  
for our piece of the sky  
that once grew from the ground.