Her name was Manar, the pretty one, Her face bright and buoyant As though her drooping lidded sib Joined at the head were no burden, But given free rein to blink and suckle, A lamb's share of the attention.
They said it was she was the preferred Psychologically; but you could see She thought nothing of it, her sib Thrived on her life's patronage, Was part of it as no one else could be Or could possibly comprehend.
In her own mind it was clear, and She had inborn the normalcy that knew No taint of discomfort as that projected In the eyes she looked up to, always Inflected to the nature of the problem, Her smile one of seeming reassurance.
Six heart attacks, however, demanded the solution To keep her alive, to remove her sib, Though she could never have guessed Her conjoined was termed a parasite; Islam adjudged as common sense The lesser tragedy be chosen.
Was Manar's life sustainable minus her sib? No mere metaphor for unity of minds and heart, Which once operated on and set apart - Next day, the mother buried her 'Islam' - Little Manar was bereft; and though the weight Appeared to have been removed, her smile had left;
