It is another sleepless night, a battlefield that has become familiar, and where the desire for victory is no more and no less burning than the desire for defeat.

We, the defenseless villagers, when we find no room for the shepherds, look at the flute as a memory of the cane.

Every hand, every hand that hears in its palm, your eyes fall into mine. Every alabaster, every alabaster echoes my prayer to you.

I did not fear, while you were living in my bowels, that every remote vinegar would become away from me, for people are two, one whom I adore and the other whom I did not count among the living.

Adam, you are me and my blood runs in your wrists and in your weeds I let out my verbal serpent. To liberate or suffocate the sleeping firebird in a poem in which the world and the past boil.

I'm looking for a safe place for this confetti, a place that keeps the fractures of my soul for me.

The sound of growing grass woke me up. For the sake of vigilance, it is impossible to sleep early. When I am deaf, the dream kidnaps me. I reached the water following the mirage without feeling thirsty.

As if you love and are ashamed to say, or hate and are afraid to say; Like you're afraid. Or that what frightens you remains inside you, grows, becomes a mountain and you are too weak to bear it and too weak to say, that now you are like a man who carries a mountain inside and cannot move. He cannot raise an eye or a hand.

I try to go out on my own, and every time the only thing clinging to my coat pockets is the doorknob.

On my back, I carry, like a camel, a heap of wishes, whose return has not grown, or perhaps, like the fruit of a rotten cactus thorns that has not withered. I have no field to plant what I have in my heart of the corpses of naked words. Signs of vigilance fail me.. when I am fascinated by the madness of a cold night with its ghosts. And from my deserted balcony, I look at me without a face that knows me.

I am not a shadow of anyone's body. Like clouds, I carry in my saliva the genes of transit, and the remnants of what my ancestors left of the ambiguity of the beginning and the end signs. I may be without soft hands that soothe the ingratitude of barren paths, to rearrange broken traffic lights in the columns of time.

When he wakes up from his sleep and when he falls asleep in the gloomy morning and the joyful evening, he repeats, raving: No, there is no time left, there is no time for death, he sniffs the trail on the threshold as a wolf sniffs his urine in a moment of fury in the circle he drew for departure. There is no time for the phrase to shiver from the cliff of his being, falling from the trees of the deep unconscious, blocking the horizons and roads for him, and sometimes raining on the body of a woman who illuminates the end of the dark tunnels.

You groaned as if you were touched by lightning and madness when the hoopoe touched you, and before it got lost in your deep depression, you shone with weeping as the thirsty and barren earth when it rains, a thread of volcano splits from its womb.

Are you a king or sky? To forget your knights in the cloud of their transient dreams, and to ignore the vocabulary of promise at the forefront of your reign?

Now you fold your round table, polish the thoughts of your horses with the most fearless spurs, and sing the desert anthem to sailors on the road, and women at home. But who listens to you, when you are ignorant of Surat Douha and forget the catalog of legends? And it goes forth armed with laws to convince a people exhausted by their residence in the prison of the sea, to accept the shackles of the land, a people quenched by the acidity of thirst, a people overwhelmed by illusions shattered by illusions.

You exaggerated in sharpening the sword with the lust of the stone. You matched the rock with your heart. Justice mixed with the king's indiscretion. Are you the war against your people? Or are you peace be upon him?

Here you exaggerate your stare whenever a person passes in front of you who is overwhelmed by the delusion in his being, a person who collapses, clinging to the nostrils of a fading person whom we roam in a hive of wheat in the hope that the miracle will rise in his organs. We perform a prayer for him for which the king and the kingdom line up.

How would you like us to believe you're waiting? How can your texts sealed with the ivory of our bones read the fortune for us, while polishing a crown for you, which you inherit every morning like a date that worsens in the nightmares of our lost night?

The soldiers who witnessed death, even if you put them in heaven, will not be happy because their souls are addicted to panic.

Alone now in the forest, befriend the beast and open your suspicious heart to him.