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.
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.
We walked and smiled silently all the way, and at the end of it we opened a wound and entered it.
How many tears did we shed on the night of our departure, then we swallowed--fearing that we might be blamed--with the rain.
If we were like the branches of a tree, the sun would nurse our veins together and the dawn watered us with dew together, then we would be dyed with lush greenery when we stretched out and embraced our arms, and in the spring we clothed ourselves in colorful clothes, and in the fall we undressed, naked and bathed in the winter, warmed by our tenderness.
If we were at the seashore, two smooth waves of sand and oysters crowned with a slurry of day and foam, then we would unleash the current that pushes us from our cradle to the edge together in a humming, dancing gait. A delicate cloud would drink us up and dissolve under the mouth of a sweet, companionable sun, then we would return as twin waves, surrendering to the current in an eternal cycle from the seas to the sky. From the sky to the seas.
If only we were in two tents, two neighbors from one balcony, our rise in one cloud, our resting place to light for the lovers alone, for the travelers towards the abode of love and love, for the watchful mourners, guarding the bonds of loved ones. He crosses the path and bows, when he draws his eye to our purity, he catches us, he wipes us with his feathers, he admires our luster, he showers us in the purified parting.
If only we were the wings of a gentle and soft seagull, the strait does not leave, hovering over the wolves of the ships, announcing the arrival to the navigator and awakening the longing for the loved ones and the homeland. And they forget his fear and bewilderment by chanting, poetry, and blowing on the flute.
If we, if we, if we, woah from the harshness of “if,” my girl, if we begin our words with semen, but we… oh from the harshness of “but we”! Because it says in its wrapped, entangled letters that we deny what the days left behind in our souls. We would like to take it off. We would like to forget it. We would like to return it to the womb of life.
But, my girl, I am tried sitting on the sidewalk of a world full of confusion and rubbish. A universe devoid of handsomeness. Gained me obscurity and grimness. When I fell on top of it in the early morning I was in the past days, my sedition, a solid warrior, and a valiant knight, before the feet trampled in my heart, before the sun and frost whipped me in order to humiliate my sublime pride.
I was living in an immortal spring, what a spring. I fed them from my aching heart, and when I saw the bewildered, the lost, lost in the dark, I would like their loss to burn me, I would like to light up, and if I laughed purely, as if I were a brook that turns away from the shadow of the stars, its bright face, what happened to the valiant knight?
The heart was dislocated, and it ran away without reins, and the stalks of dreams were broken, O you who show my step on the path of innocent tears! O you who show my step on the path of innocent laughter! Peace be upon you, peace be upon you, I give you what the world has given me of experience and skill in return for one day of virginity.
No, it is only “you” who will return me to the old knight without a price without calculating pure profit and loss. I see you, my love, as if you have grown out of time. I would remain standing without a place, if your tender love did not return me to purity, so we would know love like the branches of a tree, like two neighboring stars, like twin waves, like the wings of a gentle seagull, then we would not separate, holding together a path that would bring us together in its own path.
If we were at the seashore, two smooth waves of sand and oysters crowned with a slurry of day and foam, then we would unleash the current that pushes us from our cradle to the edge together in a humming, dancing gait. A delicate cloud would drink us up and dissolve under the mouth of a sweet, companionable sun, then we would return as twin waves, surrendering to the current in an eternal cycle from the seas to the sky. From the sky to the seas.
If only we were in two tents, two neighbors from one balcony, our rise in one cloud, our resting place to light for the lovers alone, for the travelers towards the abode of love and love, for the watchful mourners, guarding the bonds of loved ones. He crosses the path and bows, when he draws his eye to our purity, he catches us, he wipes us with his feathers, he admires our luster, he showers us in the purified parting.
If only we were the wings of a gentle and soft seagull, the strait does not leave, hovering over the wolves of the ships, announcing the arrival to the navigator and awakening the longing for the loved ones and the homeland. And they forget his fear and bewilderment by chanting, poetry, and blowing on the flute.
If we, if we, if we, woah from the harshness of “if,” my girl, if we begin our words with semen, but we… oh from the harshness of “but we”! Because it says in its wrapped, entangled letters that we deny what the days left behind in our souls. We would like to take it off. We would like to forget it. We would like to return it to the womb of life.
But, my girl, I am tried sitting on the sidewalk of a world full of confusion and rubbish. A universe devoid of handsomeness. Gained me obscurity and grimness. When I fell on top of it in the early morning I was in the past days, my sedition, a solid warrior, and a valiant knight, before the feet trampled in my heart, before the sun and frost whipped me in order to humiliate my sublime pride.
I was living in an immortal spring, what a spring. I fed them from my aching heart, and when I saw the bewildered, the lost, lost in the dark, I would like their loss to burn me, I would like to light up, and if I laughed purely, as if I were a brook that turns away from the shadow of the stars, its bright face, what happened to the valiant knight?
The heart was dislocated, and it ran away without reins, and the stalks of dreams were broken, O you who show my step on the path of innocent tears! O you who show my step on the path of innocent laughter! Peace be upon you, peace be upon you, I give you what the world has given me of experience and skill in return for one day of virginity.
No, it is only “you” who will return me to the old knight without a price without calculating pure profit and loss. I see you, my love, as if you have grown out of time. I would remain standing without a place, if your tender love did not return me to purity, so we would know love like the branches of a tree, like two neighboring stars, like twin waves, like the wings of a gentle seagull, then we would not separate, holding together a path that would bring us together in its own path.
Your body is as sharp as the word you threw, so the apples of the kiss became dice, like a knife that cuts and cuts without leaving a trace. Your body is categorical and impenetrable to the point where I doubt the source of this scent that paves the way for flight without wings, so how in this narrow land can the poppy flaunt its horn. Your body is categorical, impenetrable, and narrow, like the eye of the envious.
His wife says: Our house is very old, and the children's room does not fit two small beds, so he wrote a poetic verse with a broad metaphor.
I bear witness that your shadow touched the string of the lute, so the shepherd got high in his lost and forgot the village, and his flock was suddenly guided to a lost paradise.
I bear witness that your voice is drenched with wine that flows from a spring in Paradise. That is why the trees, the river, and the migratory birds become intoxicated, and good deeds grow like grass in their notebooks, and virtue follows them like destinies.
I testify that you have a supplication on every mountain that a lover raises in his channel or a cloud bears in her departure, and I testify that you have a share from every slope to which the souls of the saints flock.
I bear witness that your voice is drenched with wine that flows from a spring in Paradise. That is why the trees, the river, and the migratory birds become intoxicated, and good deeds grow like grass in their notebooks, and virtue follows them like destinies.
I testify that you have a supplication on every mountain that a lover raises in his channel or a cloud bears in her departure, and I testify that you have a share from every slope to which the souls of the saints flock.
Do not tread on a shadow, it is a sleeping sight. Don't take a branch to a stove, it's the hand of a tree. Pick up the leaf and put it back on the branch. It's the eye of the tree. Stars look see star insists. All these winds are nothing but human groans. Don't look into space to see a moon. There is another moon on Earth: your eye.
Thoughts Hub
I bear witness that your shadow touched the string of the lute, so the shepherd got high in his lost and forgot the village, and his flock was suddenly guided to a lost paradise. I bear witness that your voice is drenched with wine that flows from a spring…
Your voice was the water that heals the corruption of rivers.
Hanging like dust on the brink of dust, whoever uses my blood with blood is more beautiful than him, and whoever fights my death with a more sophisticated death and kills me, I will give him an elegant corpse like mine.