I still remember your face and your laugh rings in my ears, which removes the rust from the soul
And whenever they call in the village in your name (Khaled), I feel a longing for the past, even if it is sad
I like about you your restriction of deprivation, your simplicity of heart, and your love of enjoying the immediate present
The restrictions that time or its companions have placed on us came as gifts and luck
When we migrated a long time ago, we destroyed everything. We thought we had broken the chains
But we destroyed the night in the blackness of our hair so that the night would be separated from the stars. Rather, we must see happiness in pain and laugh in sorrows.
We get married and have children in a time of death and building graves
What I see around me of the haughtiness of souls and the elevation of noses are souls suffering from the tendency of death, seeking paradise from the desert, while we are burying ourselves in the cloak of poverty, stepping over our feet, and we are in a state of constant loss or amazement.
We are still searching for an identity between the skulls of the dead and the ghosts of the ancients
And we wait for what does not come
The sky, which had not brought rain since ancient times, brought dust and heat toxins
The clay roofs of our homes cannot bear fans, nor can our hands carry sticks and strike every sinner
Nor does our prayer squeeze the clouds
The field whose wheat we hoped for is still dust and its seeds are lost
We run under the fog, begging for relief and begging for rain
And the misery that befell my father’s land is lean...........
She was tired of monotonous drought
The suns that appear due to the eclipse are a warning
My chest, which is eager to scream, is still gathering its strength since I was born in the orphan's cave
I drown in the shores of the dream and crawl with my exhausted years over my body
I spent all the holidays behind closed doors, against joy and happiness
And I sought the light in the eyes of my orphan sister
The lightning bolt that still strikes me is that my memory is devoid of my mother’s face
It sends predators deep inside me that devour beautiful images
We are still searching in the harsh winter for the warmth of stoves
The doors were closed and the windows were shattered by ice
The cold seeped through the ceilings, laden with sorrow and nostalgia
The sun in the months of December and January does not give warmth under the skins of the lost
Their moon is eclipsed by the darkness
And
A dark, heavy cloud loaded with loss, deprivation, and homelessness
Always cold to death, frozen to the seventh folds of the earth, and its stars far away, dry, its accumulated sadness sends terror into the veins of my body, and its breath is a strong, cold wind that brings souls back to suicide from vein to vein.
And death has not come
In my room, which had been prepared for a meteor attack, all its corners began to collapse
And the dreams that hope sows.....are just fog
It does not irrigate or wet the bird's feathers
The killer question is what are you waiting for?
We are in deathly anticipation of boredom
We no longer cry because there are haters all over the earth
They knew we were not afraid
We were even able to breathe black dust and fly in the nebula
And the clouds of their hatred are dreams that hang over their heads, clouds with no water in them
We have worn turbans and turned toxins into pure air, even if they were arrows and poisons
And because we are waiting for boredom to die
We widened the path for him and made two graves for each grave so that it could accommodate those camping on the banks of the desert
The earth will not sing for us, and the sky will not remember the glories
We have stayed under palm trees for centuries, seeking shade, shaking their trunks, and eating fresh dates
The crows came and extracted the galls from the roots of the palm trees and planted the rats in their stems, and the heads fell with them, and we are still reeling, except for you epileptics. Are you aware?
Seek help from death, pull it out, here we sit
Do you wait for deadly despair?
Isn't death dying?
I stay in my room, let the drops come in and wash the old reeds, and my eyes look to the clouds, begging for water from the palm of hell.
It may fade a little and then stop or return to normal
I am afraid that the rain will stop, and the summer will kill me, and despair lives in my insides, and I cool it with tears like entering my room
Purify the eyelashes of my eyelids that complain of thinness, and my palms become dirty because I have been under siege for a lifetime.
And those whom I left behind followed me carrying their old hatred, but the boats brought them to safety, and they preferred my death rather than my life, and they were able to pour out their hatred beyond what is reasonable and unreasonable.
I admit defeat
Not from them, but from my suffering, my loneliness and the pieces of my diasporaAnd my life wasted in the cessation of rain, and my call echoed in the time of thunder, because the sound was lost in the lean caves, and the tears spilled in the days of mute conjunctivism and died in the beginning of retreat and defeat, so that the wailing became weak from the still night in the snowy forests.
And the ice that shatters under the feet of the returnees, causing them to drown in the rivers of isolation...
But I did not remove my headband in order to melt in the crucible of Westernization and continue to represent the few and taste the spices of racism.
Even my daydreams and hopes no longer shake me, as if I were in a slumber from the living of the poles or the dead of the desert.
But I am tired of the journey of instantaneous existence, and everything I see is almost an illusion, and everything atomic gathers only to be destroyed and dispersed
My childhood, my youth, my calling, my voice, my wailing, my life, and my tears may come alive when the sky rejoices.
He revived a period of time during which the sky shook
Boredom returns with its sharp knife, cutting the strings of my heart and scattering its parts into non-existence
I tried to stop the sobbing of the truth. My head hit the collapsing rock
I fought racism during the time of the councils, and because I was captured by the brutality, and I confessed my sins, that I was a stranger, I loved madness, I lived in the settlement outpost, I demolished the tin huts, I robbed them of lions, I wove verses of poetry from them, and I confessed that I tore the prince’s cloak.
He assigned me a saa’ of retaliation and they stood up and the swordsman recited a statement of defeat
(He turned progress into retreat and into the era of stealing from the pockets of the night like the hawksbills, and raised the dust of history in the war of Al-Bassus, opening the gaps for birds, and hunting down the bustards.
Stop me on the verge of death, I have destroyed the prisons
They are exiled or killed
Madness was rented, the collar of my waist screaming at my conscience, blowing what it wanted into the trumpet of nihilism
Take me out with him if hell I wear him
Leaving a refugee to you is a disgrace
Shake off my clothes, for some of my grandfather’s skin is stuck on them, and you think it is gold dust
They called on him to absorb the remains of my blood, to spit me out like a volcano spews lava, and we melt like a wax body, and we become eternal in the earth, which others think will be righteous.
Even the muddy dreams have given up and everything is preparing to be broken
He settled in the depths of the earth after clearing the blue of the sky
He made her barren, unable to bear her clouds, and he flashes in people's faces like a crash of thunder
His shadow exposes faces and scatters the decisions of souls in the eyes, cheeks and steps, so they shine and glow, but for the fading away because they are full of brokenness.
I left my blood free to flow and wash my face. I did not stop its bleeding and let it flow until they thought I intended to commit suicide.
My faith has never been weak
Who screwed up my head, perhaps a wild dream, a failure, or an act of alienation?
I only felt pain like a prick from a doctor's needle, but my blood was ridiculous
With a smile that faded in front of my cynical look at their humanity
I delight in silence, practicing wild dream rituals
There is a place in it that prevents my heart from exploding
A man I did not know sat in front of me. I looked at him, dark, skinny, and somewhat resembling my years of exile. I gave him a cigarette, so he crumbled it and wet it with his saliva. He squirted it in the ashes of my cigarettes and put them in the slit of his mouth. Then he said, “I am a Tuareg,” and he entered into a long conversation about tribes, customs, nicknames, and camels, and about seven lean ones and seven fat ones.
When I looked at him, I embodied him in my years and bore him with all the pains he did not know so that I could continue at some point in my life. Rather, I made him an immortal painting upon which I painted my childhood and the years of my life passing in terror at the threshold of a wound that is still bleeding under the whip of a clumsy executioner, and in my corner I emit smoke like the smell of camphor and hemoglobin. The noise of the people passing by was like the sound of the monotheists carrying my coffin to its final resting place
My handkerchief is a pink shroud. He fears the grave and it changes color. The blood that rebelled escapes stealthily, but he commits suicide. It coagulates on the threshold of separation.
The mist of tobacco hides the faces behind it, and the Tuareg man is still absorbing his blow and his spit on the wall of the room, painting a picture of the madman.
Searching for the shadow of my exile, but I found nothing but its painting on the wall
Various images were derived from it
Not long ago, I came and headed to my new corner
There are those who wrote on it, be patient
Yes, I will wash my pink shroud and it will become like the blazing threads of the sun
I have left my foolish executioner and there is no one here to carry my coffin
I repaired my shattered coffin and lay down in it and covered myself with the atomic handkerchief, and I felt the absence seeping into my chest and rising to my lips, and I smelled the smell of burning camphor, the wound became pigmented, and the light retreated into the absence of the horizon.
Let the vapor of travel disperse in clouds throughout the clarity
Today I do not see the feeling of unity and dancing to the rhythm of the glow to discover the unknown
In the event of discovering the unknown
And when I allowed my heart to be exposed
I remembered someone who looked like me. Likewise, my village is in a constant state of thirst and is still raving about the conscience, the number of dignity and chastity.
And when she loves, she loves with the fragility of her heart, its affection, and mad passion, and whenever the thunder falls silent in her dome and the thunder sings and the whirlwinds dance, her tenderness and humility increase until her fervor dies.
When the years dry up
The pit becomes an oven
The sun ignites its fire
The women weave the shroud and grind the stones for camphor and resin
People flock to the hills
They rise to the blind heights
The sky was not filled with walnut trees and palm trees
The sky does not cast stones and it rains dates
The palm does not rise because it forgot to pray
They closed the doors, doors and windows
Now they see it through the windows of illusion and the sky sends snowflakes and tornadoes
They feel cold and wet
This moon is no longer loved by anyone
Because it faded and its oil ran out
As the years dry up, the pit becomes an oven
The shroud becomes rougher because the women have hair growing on their palms
Death is the only sinner
Because he built the earth with tombstones
The blue planet has moved away from it and is lost in the deep desert
The directions became unknown and I lost the sunset, the sunrise and its ancient direction
And the people in it are never like its soil
Their skins, their stones, their bones, their hearts, and their bushes were endlessly similar, and their stars crumbled to the horizon.
Its sun and moon are in constant eclipse and eclipse, and it is forgotten like dunes of white clay and hay
And her dream is always in the clouds
When I entered my village stealthily, I slipped under the cover of darkness
I was afraid of the longing in my eyes and the tears revealing my worry, and the small features of my face had grown old, and the Eid of Fasting had arrived
It has not changed or changed, for the valleys and walls in it are still asleep
Humble like its thirsty soil, its lovers are never virgins and have been forgotten by time
I said, “You will not know my face, or I may get lost in its tall buildings, and I will not find a house due to the crowding.”
But nothing has changed. She is still waiting for the autumn rains after she was burned by the July sun
Like the cheeks of a girl shepherding sheep
My dress was a white dress, and I did not know that it was my shroud, and my village was just dunes
It was pure and clear, and Satan tampered with it
How could I not, when I knew him. He had two horns on the top of his head, a staff like his tail, and he wore an amputated coat. He was sluggish, he was mesmerizing, he played games with boys. He was created in the village something that was not created, so two morals appeared in it.
One neighborhood has withdrawn into itself, while the other follows it like a dog and is not satisfied
And my village, like an old evil one, still has evil, luxurious men who poke their noses into its fields and the empty garden of my house after the well dried up.
We are dying of thirst
It was divided against itself, as it changed many faces and voices that motivated it to scream, passing under the ribs
She sighs and withdraws
It extends between the two valleys from south to north
People passed by it, swaggering and the ground shook under their feet as they searched for wealth within it. They had their share of hypocrisy and said, “Why are you so thirsty?”
Here is a sea of water
There the voices rose in the offices, and we will kill the thirst and cultivate the land, men and women, wheat and barley, and they said our time is in the morning.
They are still dating and making promises
They still talk about his accession, and no minister or prince comforted her, while she was suffering from the pain of life
And because they are all heads that do not bow down, they went to the hill to ascend the pulpits and preach about the ancients, and they have the ecstasy and news that makes skulls boil.
Rather, they have become masters of eloquence in rhetoric, targeting podiums and destroying them, and they are the only ones standing on publishing platforms.
The month of February, the month of March, the month of April, and the month of May. These miserable people are the people of my village, and here we are, following in their footsteps.
We sat on their benches and leaned on their armrests until the doctor came to us and inserted needles into our souls
The inherited inheritance is disputed by the children, and some of them left to return riding a white mare or a black donkey.
Empty mouths imitate the sounds of neighing, whistling, and squeaking, and some of them were fed up with chickens and wanted to snap their bent necks and smash their clay horns.
And that talkative old woman who kept the village secret is still in the ears, listening to the supplications of the suspicious
She walks among her forty-five children, bringing them news of what they hate
The doctor, who took advantage of the children’s disputes over the estate, claimed that he was the sole executor
They agreed that he was the firstborn son, because the mother committed suicide thinking that her body might turn into a fountain
And the father who passed away to have the highest pulpit among the graves
Because there is no midwife, clinic, dispensary, or midwife, there is no evidence left to confirm the truth of what they say
Because the little boy objected and the problem was not solved, everyone mounted poles and collected stones and fought behind the borders.
Those who emigrated are still lost in the land, searching for a way to return, and they are unable to wash themselves because their skins still exude the bitterness of the water.
On the hill, the only witness to the suicide of my village, is a grave crowned with stones and reinforced concrete. The prince of graves stands upright, and around him is a band of draped figures no longer than the fingers of the palms. Now rivals from men have come to him, and women have a share of the podiums decorated with marble. They will throw skulls at each other.
That sad valley and its mighty cliff tried to retain water for the village or to water its fragrant bushes from long thirst.
When I go up the hill I see dusk falling behind the sun as it departs and we hope that we are returning
And on a pile of stones on top of that hill trying to hug the sky
I stood contemplating and looked in every direction, and the chemicals of the desert sunset washed my head, and I was relieved from escaping.
Now my sight touches everything
Touch the light and taste the air
I left reality, the dream, the happy and sad homes, the angry faces, and the venal hands
Now I don't need water, food, or women
I don't care anymore
I became like stoning stones, but my soul could not take on the stones, so I wore them like my shabby clothes.
Then I felt like I was counting
I almost said that I moved to the world of nothing or that I was born in a state of waiting until I killed the waiting
I saw the sky and the earth, drought and fertility in the color of the original. I see it as the color of loneliness in the bodies and the complexion of the faces, white, black and wheat, and it is the color of my blood when he asks for the coffee and cigarettes he is accustomed to. Perhaps he is accustomed to the smell of spoiled poison.
We became spirits without bodies
Or the color of nothingness, as the sky is deeply black, or like the condensation of the clouds in the sky
And the crash of thunder, the cries of a murdered child in his father’s arms on the side of the country
The clouds are the tears of the bereaved. The apparent meaning of nihilism is emptiness, but its essence is blood
Everything that exists is nothing but passes into nihilism
Am I looking for passion, heat, or even suffering?
Or do I bring back memories and stories of my village?
I turn with memories as I count its sad homes and those who lived there
Even her dogs got used to each other and preferred silence to barking and howling
Everyone who died there was a martyr, a victim of hope, or a sacrifice to the clouds of the sky
That is the index finger of the mosque that touches the fog of dawn and performs ablution at twilight
She is sad and cries every morning. A drop she hides under the feathers of a dove lands on the cusp of her crescent moon.
And the confusion that fills her school yard as she waits for the clouds that pass above her, he does not wash her face or let the light fill her windows.
She still embraces tranquility and retreats into the folds of reverence, waiting for the accumulated clouds to leave with her, and she will not long for stillness.
She is always brunette and silent, quoting the stars, the endless calm of sublimity
Its wide streets, its dusty walls, its distant faces, sneaking out through the doors and turning back, hearing nothing but a whisper behind the thirsty clay curtains.
And the mist of dawn therein does not wet the guttering of the roofs
The sun that washes it with fire and light is like the kisses of frost in the months of December and January
Every year you grieve for forty days, but without the sky crying
Her children also learned isolation, their games stopped, and their eyes became frozen
The women of the village were still completing their widowhood period, and they put out the fire under the sheet and in the oven
On the paved road that divides it into two halves, I find none other than Omar standing on the bench of an old wall whose owners died long ago.
He comes from his neighborhood with dilapidated houses, and those who departed never return except for burial, because the graves in their settlements are as expensive as palaces.
As for the rest of them, their children are still teething
I said goodbye to Omar
I wander the streets hoping to hear the old women gossip
When I approached that wall, I saw her sitting on the threshold of the western corner
I don't know if it is her, or her memories
She placed her thumb on the elbow and extended to the middle finger
Every year, I would come to her after exams since the first grade and offer her a box of biscuits and comfort
You say you are successful
She was waiting for me and my gift
She eats and hides what is left in her mouth, her eyes filled with fear
She was never a fortune teller
She did not read like sorcerers or write talismans
In her sadness, her hands felt cracks like the cracks of the fertile earth. She did not smell the scent of rain, and on her forehead was a history of pain.
Her head is like a brown mountain with the snow of Mount Akkar on it, and her eyelids are not defined by kohl, but rather black from smoke, and on her cheeks is a green tattoo depicting a deer and green branches.
I never saw her joke or laugh, except for her smile once a year
An orphan smile when I succeed
I thought she was the secret of my success, and I added basil sprigs with her gift
And for the first time I see her laughing
And sorrows laughed with her
She said, “You must be successful, but my son is in love,” and my face turned red ashamed of her and I turned away ashamed
Since the one with the cracks left, the image of her broken face, her little finger hooked like a goshawk’s beak, her gray dress, and some threads of black melasma that have become faded surrounding her chest have remained in the memory.
And her boots cooked in the August sun
And the remains of Akkar's snow
I went and left it to grow in memory of basil sticks
Death is not something that is confused about in our monotonous days
Death, murder, captivity, and rape are found in the streets, the depths of the mist, the storms of the sea, and the forest
In it, they do not speak or remain silent, their eyes chatter, their mouths are frozen, and they sail in a sea of death
They never ask for joy in times of dying, nor do they know the feeling of euphoria and victory
I walk on its roads as if I were on the moon
I may find someone looking for me
You old man
I see you facing the wall, supporting it with your left hand and your right hand on your slim waist
And on the sidewalk, drops of spilled serenity fall
What a disaster befalling you
And you hide your brown forehead against the mighty wall
You are not afraid of falling, you have become accustomed to it forever
is not it
Don't you go with me?
Eh:
He said I am the departed.
I am the one who sent the feeling anxious about existence, and I am the one who knew the departure
While I am sitting behind the shelters, the doors are closed for me by a harsh wind, and the doors are opened for me by the tempests, which are a form of anxiety that brought the news.
I am the one who knew the eternal departure and I am the next to leave
The meager body I have left for you is sufficient for me
Now close the soul in the labyrinths of life, carry the wounds like the folds of books, and bandage the bleeding papers with all effort
How difficult it is when friends stab you and come carrying the head as an offering to the crow
What did he get from me when he tore out my vein? What did he get from me when he wanted me to be annihilated?
This is why
This is why I see you isolated in the alleys, surrendering to long stumbles, as if you were calling out in the absence of awareness
Who brought you from afar and who burned your tent and scattered your loved ones?
I see you regretting it, as if you were the one who did this
Now, do not blame ancient times, fathers, and grandfathers as you erect and push strength into your exhausted members.
Trying to answer all of these
It will change everything
When you looked around you, you realized that you were squeezing your miserable muscles and your brain, shrunken in the skull of sad assumptions.
You say I will join the poor, the executioners, and the kings, and be equal to the dust
Don't you want your independence to be like raindrops watering any land you want?
Or will you become like a snail, with nothing entering your shell except your wet body?
Does your shell protect you from being crushed underfoot?
Satan may destroy you with his cruelty while you are inside your shell
Drought and displacement have tempted you, and your secrets and your family have been scattered in ashes all over the place
Or do you ignore like a donkey, do not move anything from existence, and rebuild your home and scattered ashes?
Rather, you are the stabbing wolf and the sad wind
You are both angry
Where are you two going?
Where do you carry your bleeding wound?
Do you want to hide as if you were smiling in pain, or do you sharpen your fang to inspire fear?
Do they leave you alone? You are wounded and stabbed
Today your fangs will remove the stones and in the next hour they will destroy your pride
If you had become a dog, you would not have been stabbed treacherously, but rather they would have fed you the livers of goats
Even if you became a dog and licked their feet and they made you drink of the sweet Euphrates and wiped your head with their palms, even if you were impure.
And because you do not shake your sin now, your mouth will ache and the women will share your satin skin, or the son of the master will spread your skin.
Did the sad wind bring you when it curled up and hid you in its gray coat and uncovered its leg when it saw the affluent?
Or is she, like you, sad and exhausted from carrying the dust? She wanted to rest from traveling, so she landed on the doorstep of meanness.
Don't you see that she deceived you and carried you with dust from the depths of the desert?
She calmed down and drank water, while you unfolded and your feeble howling became a groan.
Yes, wolf, leave them to the weak body and laugh in the soul
Do you want to rest?
Leave the wall, lean on my shoulder, and go with me to burn away the weakness
Maybe we were likenesses and bodies
looked at ?
Do you erase the borders with your palms?
In the time of death, do you seek joy?
In times of disappointment, it ignites the conscience to breathe life into the ashes
The flood may come and extinguish the flame that was kindled by the wreckage of the world
When intrigue and despair attacked me
I was a rejecter of despair
I used to see you behind me and in front of me
And now:?
You are going to something other than what I hoped for, and you are destitute to the point of evaporation, but you take me in a tight, compassionate embrace
There is no hope that fills the void with serenity, joy, and light that emerges from a source of radiance in the meanings of existence
But the reality is as I said: wearing likenesses and bodies
If I am leaving: I have an appointment with you above the hills
My village is the mockery of a female who dates me with death and mocks me
She said, “You are annihilating me,” and she furrowed her eyebrows. Rather, your self will dissolve in me and disappear on my chest, and your body will stagnate in my clay.
Do not think that you own me, but rather you are the nourishment of my arteries, and as long as my space is empty, the light is a mystery that fills me
Don't you try to probe the universe and the secrets of spaces? My religion is hatred without limits
Absolute love in my eyes is a horizon, for you are dead, for death is from me. Lenny mocked and smiled sarcastically. Do you want to straighten out my years? I am the female with the crooked rib. I will make you miserable and you will not make me miserable.
O child in love with a departing spring, the light is gray and not beautiful
Oh child, your life melts on my chest. Your life and your grave are in my breasts. Rest, my child, on my chest. Your dreams make me laugh and make me cry.
Come stay with me.........Where are you going?
Are you going on an unknown path?
Behind the plateaus, paths diverge, and each path gives rise to a new path
You're still young, where are you going? A naughty ghost is on your way
You might be stabbed by a piercing star
Do not tread on the feet of misery
My child, don't go, stay
Take raisins from me and walk behind me. Do not pass me or step on my feet. Follow me and you will not get tired.
At first you said you don't know me
I am fast when I run. I race ahead of her on one leg and leave her behind me panting and she will not be able to catch up with me
At first I said
How delusional I was
She went and stuck in her rag coat
Stop: to catch my breath
My heart is slowly being torn apart
There is not a step between you and me
My child, don't catch up with your old age
My crutches are oak branches and my scarves. The souls of the dead hasten, my ghosts will precede you, and I will sing with wailing and lamentations.
Stop, I'm stopping
Am I dreaming?
Rather, I surrender
You will not care about my dreams, and I will not care about your mockery that I glorify your fathers
If I were a thief, I would walk in your dirt, your old streets, and your mud walls
I left her and went to my hometown
I wondered who brought me, was it my dream or a rope that I could not see pulling my heart?
It is my longing and the longing that fills my being for my white soil. I came to wait for the evening on the thresholds of hopes
In a land where water flows, even if it rains, it is like the palm of the hand or a carpet of wool
Here the stillness is infinite. In it the sight extends, the star stubbornly struggles in the eternal calm, killing the neighing and the echo
The voice of the caller does not leave the throat
Here my heart was at ease and my chest sang with the letter Dā
Until a whirlwind stopped in front of me, filled with stillness, neither the roar of the waves, nor the rustling of trees, nor the chirping of birds, nor the arguments of humans.
The open air flows like my longing into my vein, still and silent, and drowns my eyelids
Like a baby napping in a cradle
And the dreams come back to my imagination, like the abomination of horses in the gravel land, vague murmurs.
I did not find what I thought I would see
In an empty land, except for a wolf burying its head under the fennel bushes, and foxes gathered at the mouth of the grove, watching me closely.
Wherever I looked, I did not see what I thought I would see
I came with my feet tired from walking
When I approached the borders of that flood, I threw off my sandals and walked on white rags
Like baby powder, I couldn't stop and almost crawled on my hands
And that piece of land that my father swore he would not till as long as he lived, he left it as a virgin, is still as it is, reminds him and makes him cry.
Here I remembered my grandmother’s stories on the day I was born, as if I was anticipating my soul falling
I sat on the memory rug trying to rebuild my father and mother’s house, gather my older brothers, and return the little ones to my mother’s womb.
There is the monument of the House of Poetry, there the camels graze and the sheep breastfeed their young
I lit the incense of the deserts
The breeze brought me the smell of milk and the pot was overflowing
Now I have nothing but tears in my eyes
My mother, who was kidnapped early by death
Drought tore apart poetry and slaughtered the camels
The valley, unusually, came roaring to call October and November to leave
And cool the weather and be happy in the land of the Arabs like those who are confused
And I grew up in a maze
And here I am, withdrawn into myself, not knowing what to expect
Death does not come to those who seek it
He loves to prey
Until I found myself on the sidewalks of meanness, my bed on the side of the road, suffering homelessness in the torments of a noble soul.
How I tried to hide that hateful atmosphere, even with cigarette smoke, because I am naturally shy
I couldn't play over the devil's horns
I have resurrected and sent my presence into the universe, I expose myself, I spread my dream a thousand miles, I cut off my shackles and chains, I declare my victory, I raise my banners.
I do not want to isolate myself, and whenever I say I want, my executioner knocks on my door
I am a believer. Who declared atheism?
There is no God but God
How great is our God
Can I lift my head off my pillow?
O glory, my ancestors and I will cry. His baptism has destroyed the earth, and now it is desolate
The mountain is hollow and empty. No one rejoices in its glory. Satan dances alone
And the wall has broken down and collapsed, and my sword has delayed what came before. Can I be sure?
I am sure
I am defeated in my heart
May I have mercy?
My executioner has no mercy
Am I delusional?
Life is arrogance and illusion
Who will send me to my grave?
Who can console my family?
Who will quench my thirst? I am one of those who are thirsty and say certainty: Do not kneel
I am sent, for you are deposited with the universe. Do you hear?
Go ahead and be encouraged
Your executioner is the certainty of my existence. If he does not come to me, you will return
Are you listening?
Now I know we are dead
Ghosts ripple with ghosts
I will not care about my pain and I will not count my years
We are like an elderly Darwish who repeats the beads of a prayer bead
Now I know that I am dead and the worry is lifted from my chest
If my husband found out that I was killed and I became in the spirit world
She did not give birth to me, nor did she permit anything that would be permitted to my ghost
I may flirt in my graveyard and flirt with the smiles of beautiful women
And ghosts chasing ghosts
The body of a bird was worn
Where are you flying?
Oh bird
Is there a sky after the sky, or are you changing the earth, or is Pain wanting you to plant it?
Where will you land?
They may gouge out your eyes and pluck your desert feathers and make them into pillows and decorations for beautiful women's hats
Where do you fly?
Stay as you are, I don't want you to regret it. When you fall into the clutches, regret is of no use to you
Now I know: looking for a cage
We do not have eagles. Your ancestors died and the eagles committed suicide behind them
Or are you looking for your mother and father? Rather, you are looking for a grain of wheat in a swamp of blood
Everything was ready to fight for the loaf in his hands
And the dogs that preyed on their young were not from famine. They thought that death contained eternity
The sun that still rises every day is a call to a new death and only brings morning to the gravestones
When you go out on land, a companion accompanies you, and when you enter the markets, devils accompany you
I did not fly like a bird in the sky
There the two of them will not accompany you
In the mainland there is a remnant of a pure people, a remnant of a tender, virgin land, and the remnants of virgins
Its wolves are still howling, answered by echoes and ribs
They are the only ones who hear the whispering of the stars, fight the Qurayn, and sail without fear of drowning
You do not need the vows and shrines of polytheists
Even the resident there is friendly
I was looking for him
I was looking for him
I found him lying down
Here you live in the desert
How long have you settled on empty land?
Your eyelids became drowsy and you lay down, resting from an old effort
Despite your eternal slumber, the familiarity of your home
Whenever I pass through your land, I come back to you and rebuild the walls of your house.
And raise the beacon of your head
Water the only wormwood tree to your right
As you lie down, do you know that you are the comfort of empty deserts, that your spirit is the guardian of this country?
And what you know, you long to know. I wait for you to tell me the story of old fatigue and the familiarity of faces, as if I knew your brown, clear-faced face.
I left the earth and came to you to rest
I sat facing your face and spoke to you with my voice sometimes in a soliloquy whisper
I ask you, have you seen the riders pass through the ages?
Has the obnoxious man passed your house?
Have the horses of evil galloped above the lighthouse of your head?
Are beautiful girls turned away from you?
Or have you become old?
I see you hiding your whispers in cloaks of suspicion
And the loneliness that haunts you has done what it did to you
I wish you would enter with me into the depths of my subconscious, or we would leave in the mirage, or you would be my light, or you would be my shadow
Or let us hide behind the beautiful dream and disappear within it
We won't meet then
Maybe I won't find you
And I will not listen when you call, because I do not know your voice, and you do not hear me, because you prolong your silence and stay in secret places.
I am leaving with a longing for you
Your dreams and pain carried me, but I knew that they only remind me of a stage in my life.
Where I practiced the ritual of a wild dream, and before I leave, I will tell it to you
But when the space expands and I see everything and no one sees me
It's like I'm wearing an invisibility hat
I am not shackled
I spread my wings and soar through the sky, catching the breeze, and dancing like seagulls. There are no borders, no clouds, and no mist.
An endless extension of sight
I may only see beauty and eternity, no mirage, no gods, no dawn
Nor the roar of the heat or the roar of winter
And your desert becomes beautiful
You sit on a carpet of winds carried by wishes
And you sip pure water and the rivers sing for you in the depths of songs
Don't call because I'm always with you
Do not frown, for you are with me and you will not sink into the silt
Shall I tell you about the wild dream?
Now I am building a house far away in the black hole of oblivion
Away from the cold and deadly stagnation to the beautiful mystery
I no longer even admire women's bodies
But I was able to make the earth of my soul and the paleness of the universe shine and shine, and I let the time crowned with success pass without caring about it.
I no longer feel its pressure, for my ribs are sore and have become made of iron, and the drought that tore apart my father and mother’s house has forgotten it, and I have even forgotten who I am.
I don't know when March will come
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