Today, the scent of a chrysanthemum turned into a strange ache in my nose. I wanted to swallow; it knotted in my throat.
It burned my heart then, and everything blurred for a moment — I wiped my eyes with that same scent…
Today, for the first time, I felt your pain this deeply. For the first time, I traveled through time inside a Yasin al-Sharif. I attended a procession on February 11, 1918. I mourned in the tongue of the unspoken…
Today, I understood what this scent meant — please, forgive me.
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