The labyrinth where time stops.
Morocco.
She stood above her gaze, traversing through unknown figures, turning into a translucent sheet of fabric, allowing light to travel through. Buildings of turāb, turāb means earth, the buildings here reminded her of the ground below her, crumbling but intact, a compact base, for crippling humans.
One step after another, she placed her foot, one after another, on the dusty stairs of the blocks of hope. Hope of seeing the sun in its galore, descending to earth like a holy deity blessing humankind with its grace. She pushed open the door separating her world and heaven. The wind gushed in, singing a tune of freedom, skipping and tumbling all over her existence. She pulled her sweater sleeves over her cold hands, unready for the world. Closer, she walked to the edge, towards a mere human creation that separated sanity from insanity, a small wall that stops beneath her shoulders, made to remind, that humans are mortal and death beyond the wall, waves, and calls, like a siren in the vast sea, beautiful and inviting.
She stood near death and insanity, her gaze swept over square fortresses and stretches of dreamy blue sky, emblazed in majestic gold, dipped in gentle pink hues, and there she saw, a glimpse of the deity on its pedestal.
