I am a star that guides my company when my gloom of clouds prevent to see the stars.
O inhabitant of my eyes and my blood, where in the world is there a place where you are not?
Why didn't we find enough solace in sadness? Why didn't we find enough forgiveness in love? Why is there not enough man in man? Why are all my questions while you are here and you are there?
Love must survive the beginnings to be love, become solid over time in its continuous arrival, not in the moment of its launch, but when it realizes that it has ended with healing answers.
There is something that slowly kills great friendships, and this thing is often not done by treachery or quarrels. Rather, by “not taking into account” the meaning of the phrase. This is manifested by enthusiasm, which is met with a lukewarm and dead reaction, or by frankness that shakes respect. What ends slowly, never returns.
Oh night, it escaped from your stares. I turn my sides in the sky, so that it may coincide with its sides when you look.
She says she desires a secluded cabin in a spacious field, a nearby tree, and a wide sky.
The magic of a dream touched him once, and the memory of the beautiful sin will always haunt him--a moment of freedom, a lightness that can hardly be tolerated due to its excessive beauty--remains haunting like conscience, and inspiring as every moment is full of life, effectiveness, and painful. At the heart of the moment you gamble with your presence to follow the dream.
All those who are stuck in their critical days, ask them for the signs of heaven and the shoulders of friends, and their consolation is that behind this slowness there are ends and anchors. Far be it from you not to inform us.
It came as high as a lofty heart, so that the heart does not entertain it, nor does the soul become bored!
I think if it were not for you, if your fragrance did not reveal a defect, if it were morning blond, no frills would be planted in it. If it were not for the softness of your legs, would the earth be embroidered with grass? You trample, so the morning has a breath and the rock has a heart. You see, beautiful, if it weren't for you, would there be a path full of roses? And if it were not for your eyes to turn green after the appointments, would the light swim in the East? Is it wet in the color West? What if the gray sparkle, without you, is a meteor? Were thousands of butterflies in the field, good tired? If I don't love you.. what should I love?
O my home, if my home is narrow, O my friend, if the companions are few!
Far away, the limit of dispersal of directions, close to the limit of confusion of meanings.
The seductress of the eye is the murderer of passion, when she exhales her scents to an old man, she has the tidings of the pearls with which she was imitated, and I have not seen a full moon before her.
I am free from longing to long to fill my blood
My share of existence: It turns me on and ignites
And to find in the rhythm of her laughter
A pulse in which despair and hope quarreled..
My share of existence: It turns me on and ignites
And to find in the rhythm of her laughter
A pulse in which despair and hope quarreled..
She moves around the house, and my heart slips behind her footsteps, like a baby whose milk she breastfed. At first my heart loved her and now my son loves her. And my heart carries them and they love behind them my heart: she and my son. How did the world expand for them together? How did the prophets forget to present us with such miracles for us to believe?
Every time she laughs, she pushes my soul to its rightful place, and then it becomes reassured, so now I can exchange all my days for laughter.
Since your face has vanished, and the poem is an abyss, and poetry is a window on the longing of speech for speech, your shadow has not passed through the mirrors of revelation except that my lips have murmured, and the metaphor has died out, and the language has submerged in the standing.
We have an ancient knowledge that my heart knows like the palm of my hand, we have countless laughs, special stories, and a language that only we know; And nothing helps me in my forgotten and strange days except this love.
Your eyes, O two dreaming stars without end, without them, I would not have known that the lights of hope are pure blue, and that the light is made by women.