It’s been four years today. Four years since she held me firmly in her hand with hopes so high. Four years since my ink sealed her choice and a dream of a better tomorrow. Four years since the ballot paper made history for the first time in forever, in the jewel of the Nile. Yet today seems ever so distant from that sweet spring day.
They called it an Arab Spring, and what better fit for me to have blossomed. The peoples voices have been heard and the dictator ousted. My role in this play was refetrendum day, when a hasty amendment begged to be approved and over with. Yet she believed in change. She believed in a new beginning, a new beckoning of power by the people for the people in a constitution. Normally, different views are the makes of democracy, yet politics fueled fast a deafening divide. The roots of the ousted were far too deep for a flower like me; it conquered hearts and minds. The people were soon labeled, in templates so demonizing each from their focal lenses. And soon enough the spring was painted in crimson, and burnt in the blazing heat of hatred.
Every man for himself, the unite was broken, and more pacts and deals were made with the fire blight despite common sense and values. They blame my thorns for the blood shed, they say my Spring should have never sprung, they twist the tales and branches, sentence hundreds to be hung. They want to start anew oblivious to the past, but my hope in justice is blooming and my evergreen will last…
Memories of that funny flower pen of mine in a darker note of a conflicting Egyptian reality.