At the start of every Saturday of each week, I plant a rose of hope in my chest that you will come... You will gather my scattered self... my longing... my nostalgia for you... You will scoop the sadness from my heart and pour it onto the ground to be absorbed... You will stay with me... but the rose doesn't last long... On Sunday, its brilliance begins to fade... by Monday, it lowers its head... it wilts on Tuesday morning... by Wednesday, it dries up... its petals fall on Thursday... and by Friday, it is ready to be carried away by the wind... Yet I am not disheartened, dear Wafa, for with the dawn of each week, I plant my rose again... perhaps someday you will take pity on it and choose to nurture it... It accepts no other hand to water it but yours... longs not for sunlight but the warmth of your chest... needs no air but the purity of your breaths... requires no soil but the touch of your hand... Publishing house: Dar Al Saqi for Publishing and Distribution Number of Pages: 512 Year of publication: 2006