Nahr Ibrahim Adonis River | نهر إبراهيم عشتار
"She studies the Adonis myth at its source on Nahr Ibrahim. He's the poet seeking the same ancient passion. In waters that run red with legend, they write their own story. 'Inti el mayy el hamra' (أنتِ الميّ الحمرة)."
Nahr Ibrahim Adonis River
نهر إبراهيم عشتار
Rivers carry myth.
Nahr Ibrahim runs red each spring—iron from the mountain, but ancients said it was Adonis's blood, mourned by Ishtar.
Then the poet arrives, seeking what I study.
I'm Dr. Marianne Sfeir.
Forty-nine, mythologist, body carrying years of river research. I know Adonis better than any living lover.
Imad Khalifeh writes what he can't speak.
"You study love myths."
"I study Adonis. Specifically."
"A love god who dies."
"A beauty god who resurrects. Love is the subplot."
He's fifty-one.
Poet, known for intensity, seeking something his verses haven't captured. My scholarship intrigues him.
"Why rivers?"
"Because myth flows. It doesn't stay in temples."
"It stays in people."
"In stories. We're all just story."
We walk the river together.
Where Adonis bled, where Ishtar wept. The spring runs red with iron, and something else.
"The myth is about grief," I explain.
"Or about returning."
"Both."
"Like us."
His meaning lands in rushing water.
"Imad—"
"I came for Adonis. I found Ishtar." He takes my hand. "Inti el mayy el hamra." You're the red water.
"I'm a scholar—"
"You're the myth walking."
The kiss happens where the river runs red.
Standing in sacred water. His mouth on mine is ancient passion.
"This is—"
"What Adonis felt. Before he died. What makes death worth it."
We make love on the riverbank.
Where goddess mourned god. He lays me on earth still wet with spring.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "You're—"
"Academic. Dry—"
"Ishtar. Living Ishtar."
He worships me mythologically.
Every touch devotion. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Imad—"
"Let me be Adonis. For you."
His tongue between my thighs.
I grip riverbank, crying out at ancient sky. Pleasure like divine grief.
"Ya Allah—"
"Yes. That's the sound of legends."
When he enters me, I feel deified.
We move together by Adonis's river—his body and mine, myth made flesh.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is resurrection.
We cry out together—Adonis returning, Ishtar receiving. Then we lie by waters that remember.
Two years later
His collection publishes.
"Red Water"—poems about us, about Adonis, about love that survives death.
"Worth the myth?" I ask.
"I found the source." He kisses me by the river. "You."
Alhamdulillah.
For rivers that carry myth.
For poets who seek.
For scholars who become legend.
The End.