A World of Magenta Trees

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By Alaa Gaafary

In a world of magenta trees and violent leaves, perhaps anything is possible. Perhaps the children there don’t starve, drinking from the sweet blue sap of the tree-trunks and eating from the ripe dark coconuts that fall into outstretched fingers when you sing softly to the tree. Perhaps there is no loneliness when night falls, for there is no nightfall; it seems to be perpetually twilight, a steady cerulean sky with no suns and no stars and only a few comforting red planets twirling about up there somewhere in oblivion. Perhaps there is no war, for there are no boundaries except those set by the silvery-gray boulders rearing everywhere, the rocks that are so difficult to climb. They need a team of at least twenty people to scale each one, so scuffles are simply out of the question if you want to get to the top. If you slip, you fall into the blackness of the ground, or the blueness of the sky. But if you do get to the top—you are well-rewarded, for only on the tops of these boulders you will find feathery golden-green grass, interspersed with hyacinths and lavender and wildflowers, a heaven to sleep in, to dream in, to do as you like in.

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