The light went out

Author's name: Ahmed Essam El-Din

I sit with a silver pen whose tip was cut, and the wound has dried up.
I want to tell my story before his ink runs out.
I find myself drawing again.

I draw eyes, doors, and waves.
I draw an old man carrying a child who has not accepted the idea that playtime is over.
I draw a lost young man, immersed in baggy adult clothes.
I am drawing a hotel whose owner admires its crowds, and does not understand that the visitor stays for a few nights and then leaves without returning.
I draw a circus owner playing with a monkey.
I draw a bed, beneath which is a graveyard where lost dreams are buried.

I contemplate what I have drawn, and I find myself present in everything.
I am the child, the young man, and the old man.
I am the hotel owner and its customer.
I am the visitor and the resident.
I am the owner of the circus and the audience.
I am the monkey and the drum.
I am the one who dug the grave, and I am the one who cried.
I am the one who buried the dreams with my own hands.

I gave up on achieving it.
I gave up after I held on.
I turned off the lamp, and the colors turned into a deep black.
I tried to erase the traces of the dreams, but they would return after I slept.
Life stirs within it for a few minutes, reminding me of days gone by.
She asks regretfully:
For what sin was I buried?