(Ahlul Bayt News Agency) - I pass by her and she is still standing next to the frame of her son’s picture. She is caressing the face of her son in the picture with her old hands. To be honest, I feel too shy to raise my head. I look at her in a hidden way. I have forgotten that she does not feel my presence there. She is crying with broken heart. She makes me feel deeply upset. I just saw the moments between the old woman and her son for few steps when I passed by her. And unconsciously, I started to cry with her.
I was getting far from her little by little. And she was still crying and said: “Where are you my brave son?”
She was still removing dust from the frame of her son’s picture.
The whole story happened within few seconds. But it is the art of martyrs’ mothers who remove dust from the frame of their sons’ pictures and remove forgetfulness from our hearts.
But what my art is? The whole my art is not to get into her lonely moments with her martyred son and pass by her very slowly and leave her alone with the dusty frame of her son’s picture. It seems that I forget the fact that she is alone. And even for a moment, I don’t think that I am here if her son is not here.
I walk and get far from the old woman and the tomb of her martyr. Her voice is still in my ears. I leave there and she is still alone. ….
End item/ 129