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..

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.

I was pleased that the time that ravaged you with war returned and it was peaceful and that the circumstances that afflicted you grimly came to you begging for pardon while smiling, and you realized that you were resisted by disasters that you could not when you resisted. It was said: He is the one who has mercy on those who do not have mercy on themselves.

There are things that are difficult to talk about; like the rust that devours what is available to it from my heart. Like my hand that I extend to the image of your sleeping face in my memory, but it ignores me. Like my voice that turns off when you say to him: You are dead, like the darkness that rests in my eyes. It's like an empty closet that closes its door and goes to sleep. Like a language that hides its metaphor from me as if I were death. Like poems that slowly disintegrate under the weight of distance and wisdom. Like a loneliness that shares half of my bed with me at night and turns its back - fidgeting - on me in the morning. Like my room that is overflowing with chaos. Like your eye that hides inside it a tribe of amazement. Like nothingness that devours our lives only because its hunger is greater than our desire to live.

So rest, there is nothing left but the confusion of walking at the intersection, how can I keep you away from the fire when there is a desire in your chest to burn? How can I bring you closer to the river when there is fear in your heart and the memory of drowning?

If you find love, do not deprive your heart of what it wants, for life, my son, is years, and passion is a lonely day.

Even when they woke up, the morning and dream demons laughed and left them.

I used to seek refuge in the village by the river whenever its face turned pale and its wrinkles became imminent, and I evaporated the threshing-floors with prayers that stifled their intoxication, so that they would yawn for a long while, while evil faces popped in the bonfire, emerging from the fire, and then turning to ashes.

I was the watchman who saw the lantern go out in the room of the girl who wrote a song with henna on her palms, wrapped them in the white cloth and slept, the watchman who saw the angels support the water pitcher left on the roof to cool slowly as she wanted to slide it over the feverish child's head, I was the watchman who believed in his shadow rising on the tree and his long rifle orphans and lonely.

And the poor rejoice in their empty stomachs, and the dust of hunger falls on their shoulders from the ceiling of stolen dreams. My gun was an olive branch, and my house was where the grass grows. That is why I guard the village, and without a guard, I live as if I were sent all this night, while the dawn is stuck in an abandoned well on the hill.

Among them are those who, no matter how much you tried to fly, were your sky.

Coming from there, fleeing, in order to rest on a stone. Coming from the one that was spacious in order to sit on a point on something skinny, neither there nor here. Coming from the spaces, because it was so vast that I did not see anything from it until a small garden I knew all its inhabitants. Coming from many eyes to sit in my eyes.

It does not say: Love gives birth to a living being and becomes an idea. Nor do I say: love has become an idea.

Grant me the reassurance of the trees losing their colors at night.

I know what things look like when they don't come willingly.