The Red Juice

Loud is the voice of the muezzin.. It is Morocco.. Darkness has not yet completely lowered its curtain, as if it were a half-dark curtain, inside of which there is darkness and outside of it is light. I remembered a small palm tree that was standing near my father’s grave. I saw it from afar, like a gray ghost extending its arms in the hesitating darkness. I walked with anxious, frightened steps, feeling my way cautiously, trying to realize if there was a grave beneath me so that I would not step on it. I remembered my mother running after me when I was young. Trying to cross the graves, but there is no light now, and I am now feeling my steps more and more, trying to reach the palm tree before it disappears into the overwhelming darkness. I move slowly... This is dirt about a foot above the ground... I step back a little... I change my path, perhaps it is a grave... I walk... This is dirt about a foot higher as well, but my entire foot has stepped on it... I continue despite my will. I raise my head.. I look at the palm tree.. It is close now, in about twenty steps I will arrive. It is now not a ghost rising in the hesitating darkness, but rather a painting by a painter with a dark mood!