وقلبك المتهم ,مالذي بقي لديه
ياترى لما تضع يديك على صدرك
ا تتوجسه
انت تمسكه لقد مل عشه الطائر , ولكنك تشبعه لوم وعتاب
هل صدقت قولهم , هو ليس حجرا وردي , مازال طريا باكيا ينزف , يتدفق كالنبع ويروي صلصالك المتصدع ,ايه يا ارضك الخصب ,مزروعة بأجمات الهموم , تود ان تركله بقدميك فوق ارصفة الاغتراب ,او ربما تشيعه الى آخر الاوديه .لانه يبكي عيناك
لا تلمه على الآلآم فأنك تقسو عليه ,انظر اليه ,مازال يمطر
يسقي الاعشاب التي تنبت على آثـــــــــار
الراحلين ,يغسل الحدقات لتراهم , لعلهم قادمون ,وهذه الرسائل ,عتاب للغائبين , ضباب لا يبلل تيزار
قلبك ,ايه ايها القلب ماذا بقي لديك ,الا ترى ملامح النعش ,الا تسمع صهيل الحروف وهي تجمح بك , كنت بحر والان رذاذ يبخره الوجد ,وتلك الفاتنه ,والمتعب اطال النداء عبر الصدى والنداء
ولكنها لن تأتي لانها لن تلتفت .هي لم تتجاهلك ,بل كان صوتك لا يتعدى
ظلك
وانت الغارق في الازرق الجاف , مفتون في الاسودين
ايه ايها القلب لن يلتقي ليلك الممتد في
الافق مع اثمدها ,وانت تقف هناك
ماذا لديك ياترى
ولن تسطيع العوده , لانك وصلت تخطيت الشغف
~~~~~~~~~
I wonder, what do you have left, and the ink has been drained by your pens, and your loved ones are at the gates of summer and smelling the breeze, but your eyes watch the far away and shed tears, you do not blame them.
And your accused heart, what does he have left?
I wonder when you put your hands on your chest
Don't worry about him
You hold him, the bird is tired of his nest, but you fill him with blame and reproach
Did you believe what they said? It is not a pink stone. It is still soft, crying and bleeding. It flows like a spring and waters your cracked clay. Oh, your fertile land, planted with thickets of worries. You would like to kick it with your feet on the sidewalks of alienation, or perhaps take it to the end of the valleys. Because it makes your eyes cry.
Don't blame him for the pain, for you are being hard on him. Look at him, it's still raining
He waters the herbs that grow on the traces of the departed. He washes the eyes so that you can see them. Perhaps they are coming. And these messages are a reproach to those who are absent. A mist that does not wet the surface of your heart. O heart, what do you have left? Do you not see the outlines of the coffin? Do you not hear the neighing of letters as they sweep through you? You were a sea and now. A spray evaporated by passion, and that charming, tired woman prolonged the call through the echo and the call, but she will not come because she will not pay attention. She did not ignore you, but rather your voice was no more than your shadow.
And you are immersed in the dry blue, fascinated by the two blacks
O heart, your night stretching across the horizon will not meet its thickets while you stand there
What do you have?
And you will not be able to return, because you have reached beyond passion
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