Short Story “Sun and life” by Eklas Francis- Translated by: Maha Osman

On the table there’s a glass its red froth dancing, as well as candy pieces and pistachio nuts.
A little bit of nothing, a lot of death news and between death and another, there’s another kind of death. On leaves of citrus trees, rain showers embrace the last sunshine ray. As he bids farewell to the day on the opposite plateau ‘s shoulder, are selections of cosmopolitan paintings.
Tonight, the colours carry a unique trait from senseless sadness grazing between one letter and one line and another, a face appears loitering in my memory. By coincidence I was born a female, from a village where Spring is life’s revolution, Autumn is thought, Summer is nostalgia’s ballad, and Winter has the taste of a lover clad in the arms of the beloved.
At this moment, how much I need my mother’s embrace. I look at my future in her palms, I believe in a brighter tomorrow, she carries me a ticket back to her lap and rituals of childhood.
I bury my wound in her hair locks, and my soul’s gasp penetrates the range, flowing underneath my skin. The evening becomes more void, I leave without leaving. I sail without a boat. I look for canned forgetfulness, sold in major stores of humanity spare parts. I set free my silence, and write another letter, asking the circumstances’ permission to draw a dead fish, as Andre Gide says: “A fish dies with its chest up, floating from the bottom and rising, that’s its way of falling.”
How similar we are in falling upwards!
I am a cloud that likes leaving laden with rain, I carve my hobbies on the rock. When bouts of bitterness attack, I run on the roofs.
I drown in the unfamiliar which is inhabited by affection and solitude. I lie between Heaven’s arch and ecstasy. I see the coldness of death creeping into the cots of children. I hear the trumpets calling coffins, raising the masts on a long journey on the earth’s clay.
I want a cup of coffee, I over-identify with the black lines, and a fortune teller reads and over-reads in search of that missing moment from excessive optimism. Maybe this terrible feeling will disappear, and this melancholy that gnaws the souls of humans will pass. When did this reality come? I can almost guarantee it is a set of dreams, everything seems strange, it is necessary for it to end, it is required we wake up and get rid of this deep sleep that weighs down the eyelids.
Behind the horizon appear clear profiles and wonderful colours, and we write the end.