Letter to my two-year-old daughter

Omar Abi Azar

It’s almost morning

Behind our building someone is shouting.

Maybe, like me, he also forgot to turn off the night.

In a few hours you will look so much smaller

Your hands will be smelling of cheap detergents

Your gaze will fade in a closed horizon.

When you wake up we will all look much older

The cities we loved will be one death away from the cities we hate.

The people we loved will be corpses in the cities we hate.

I guess it’s better.

I guess it’s cleaner.

The smell of detergent

Will be jasmine in your lungs.

I guess it’s better.

I guess it’s cleaner.

The smell of detergent will be a comfort in your soul.

Less loss.

Less sorrow.

Less love.

In cities,

In Bodies

That spit you


I guess it’s better.

I guess it’s a shame.

When you wake up.

Love and cities

Love in cities

Love and bodies

Love in bodies

Will be swiped by the smell of detergents

By fear of germs from our decaying bodies

As if the smell of our own flesh might kill us.

When you wake up

Don’t forget to


Don’t forget to touch

To transgress

To go out

To resist

To be tempted

To be touched


And kissed

In every corner

Of the city: your body.

It might never be morning again.

One more time I forgot to hug the light.

The man behind our building is still shouting.

In a few minutes

You will open your eyes

It will be dark.

I will look so much older

You will recognize me from the absence of hair on my head

Or from the soul confined in my body

That smells like my continuous decay.

If light comes back

When light comes back

Over what remains of our flesh and bones

You will get out of your bed

You will dance

In a crowd

You will sweat

On the rhythm of a music that I don’t understand

And probably hate

You will melt in other bodies

Other smells

that take you far from my bold skull.

To cities that will mean nothing to me

If cities



And flesh

Still exist.

10th of April, 2AM

Omar Abi Azar

Theatre director - Zoukak theatre company


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