Summer foundling

What's wrong with you, poems of this dreamy year? The time for harvesting your rhyme has almost arrived before its time, and your fruits have not yet ripened. Here are the neighbors' children, their mouths splitting into melodies of the harvest songs of the date palms of Al-Mabsali (1), dancing around the boiling cauldrons of Al-Faghour (2) in the afternoon of July, quarreling with each other, and gathering the unripe dates striped with yellow and red, and the old women refuse to carry on their heads the baskets and the baskets full of ripe dates to return to the hut with that beautiful story overcome by fatigue and emptiness. Perhaps this summer heat is the foundling of the male dates hidden among the trees of Al-Saqam and Al-Lathb (3) that extend on the side of the valley and in the throat of a farm abandoned for hundreds of years, from which the smell of the salt marshes yawns. I was also amazed that the lemon tree of Al-Batha'a wept its fruits with heat, and that the summer insects did not land on the flexible branches of the Al-Qaw (4) tree, and that the white tears of the Al-Shakhr tree were still constantly bleeding, and what next? I forgot to tell you that "e;Jafna Al-Layl"e; or "e;A Game That Has Not Ended"e; (5) received the largest share of reading in this beautiful summer season, which is close to all rural souls as well. It was like the soul, and I made me repeat some of it to the ears of my expatriate friends in the capital, Muscat, who came from everywhere where life had become difficult. Thus, I found myself dying in front of this summer season without any hesitation.