For the grandchildren the taste of morning coffee

The grandchildren have the taste of morning coffee, and the fragrance of tea with saffron transparency, this is how the feeling is when you receive the news of a new visit to a river butterfly that lands on the flower of life, and it fills it with a bright color like the face of a rainy cloud. A moon wearing a yawny shirt, a wave that rolls on beaches filled with the warmth of bright oysters, makes you a flood of smiles betting that life will not be too late, makes you paint an ideal picture on the sparkle board, makes you a river flowing between the fingers of wishes, as if the land longs for water.
When you formulate words on lips softer than two mulberry leaves, you will be longing for a bygone childhood, the dream will fill you with the sweetness of days, and you will be in the family environment like Mukhtar Sahah telling the story of the words on the tongue of the opponent who has not yet wanted to grow and become clear.
The grandchildren have a language, just as they have the characteristic of flowers on ripe branches, they go with awareness to where your years lie, which left at their full speed until you became among the collection an old book that still retains the secret of its survival without the disappearance of memories that days have not dried up, and you have not been able to destroy its rich harvest.
The grandchildren have the characteristic of words in their hidden meaning, the softness of their broadcast, their urging and their permissibility. The grandchildren have an autobiography that has not yet been written, but it is in content and content, foretelling of a spike emerging from among the folds of the grass, confirming that you are still in existence a lush tree, on its branches the birds of joy sing, It weaves its nests with skill of innocence, splendor of spontaneity, and a dream that does not fold the cloak of aspiration, and despite the crowding in the streets of memory, you feel the presence of the grandson as if you are being reborn, as if you are a tree whose leaves are rearranged, and its branches are pruned, in order to arise, grow, and develop.
This is how life teaches us how the branches become green when a newborn cries, blazing like dawn, and on his body the water of the placenta is still swimming arrogantly, confirming that life is from water, and we water the seed of life from water, and fill the bucket of life with the sweetness of things.
Grandchildren have steps in the heart, starting from the beginning of the artery, to the vein of the heart, and everything else is a path to a world enriched by morning songs, when the grandson is in great harmony with the comfort or tenderness of a mother, and love offers a loaf of bread anointed with the ghee of good feelings.