My grandmother, may God have his mercy on her, still keeps the role of the hero; her face wrinkles are a leather book open to all interpretations; the falling of her teeth are the lost evidence on present time; her hand is abstract paintings drawn by burnt coffee on the interior walls of the scratched cup of being.
Yet, wrinkles are the triumph of time over place;
Here is a clock is solemnly watching the dying of its wall.
A wrinkle is also an excuse for loving words;
A lover will say to his beloved: “whenever a wrinkle looms in your face, I wipe it away by my tender glance”.
Thus, again, it seems that passionate love enjoys white lies and blindness.
In wrinkles lives the eternal sorrow.
So, let’s grease the trunk of the old olive tree with some oil and delight.
Nevertheless, wrinkles in water’s face are the flow with life;
The smooth face of ice flows with death.
Shadows are the descent of white light on things;
Wrinkles are the ascent of grey shadows from things.
A refugee would say:
“My age is a punch of wars and a sheaf of wrinkles in the forehead of the world”.
But still, every morning I leave my wrinkles in the mirror and walk away beyond the borders of my window.