كالامس لا شيء ينتظر ,حتى الحروب بدت رتيبة اما الموت له شأن آني ومؤقت , البارحة في حكاية الغريب تشبه الاعوام السبعة المنسية , تشبه عمر الاكاسيا او نقش العروس , الامس الذي وددت ان اتحدث عنه او اتذكره ليس من اجل شيء مهم لكن الغد لا بداية له حتى منحنيات الطريق انكفأت وضيع ملامحه , ماذا لو مشيته خطوة وحركة حصاته سأجد حكاية او ابتكر ظلا اتكأ اليه او استنبط رفيقا مات منذ الهجرة الاولى , ربما اعيد اغنية لامرأة هزجة في حفل ختان ايتام ,تتوعد صاحب الشفرة بقطع يده ان الم الطفل الخائف ,الطفل المذهول من دمع سحته عينيها , لقد نسي انه كان يتألم وابتسم لغنوتها , لو عدنا للامس مرات ومرات لفعلنا اشياء كثيرة وسامحنا وربما كشرنا عن انيابنا , نهشنا كل عتيم , لكنه ابدا ماضيا يشحذ مديته ويذكرك بك كيف كنت يجب ان تكون ثم تبتسم معه وتقولان لا جدوى لا جدوى-
like yesterday
Like yesterday, nothing waits, even wars seemed monotonous, but death has an immediate and temporary matter.
Yesterday, in the story of the stranger, resembles the forgotten seven years.
It resembles the age of the acacia or the inscription of the bride.
Yesterday that I wanted to talk about or remember, not for something important, but tomorrow has no beginning
Even the curves of the road receded and his features were lost, what if I walked him with a step and the movement of his pebbles
I will find a story, or create a shadow to lean on, or find a companion who has died since the first migration.
Perhaps I repeat a song of a woman who sang at an orphan circumcision ceremony, threatening the owner of the blade to cut off his hand, that the pain of the frightened child, the orphan child, stunned by the tears her eyes poured, he forgot that he was in pain and smiled at her singing.
If we went back to yesterday over and over again, we would have done many things, forgiven, and perhaps got angry, so that we would smash every darkness, but it is never the past that sharpens its blade and reminds you of how you should have been, then you smile with him and say it is useless.
Useless
