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الأحد، 4 فبراير 2024

الحيرة والدهشة و المسافه وانت ِ

And the bewilderment is the bewilderment of the answer in the labyrinth of the question. After his astonishment... I spoke to him in the night, and his solitude answered me. There is no strangeness in his feeble sighs, nor his moans, nor the glimmer of sleeplessness in his eyes. A night that does not move his lips, and words wither in the blueness of writing. And he asks about my absence after the vanishing of the absent. Distances do not hinder, and how near the path is. Were it not for your gypsy addresses, walking in the footsteps of the sun, We would have been but a hair's breadth from a light that would invade our darkness. I do not know why I feel regret. I want to apologize for a mistake I was unaware of, for something that makes me feel blamed, and I do not know its secret place. I am sorry for a silent longing that burns. My eternal, sad night feels you. A majestic night that embraces the gentleness of the fields and the stroll of the devout. We wished, without a doubt... The wishes were a simple presence, an arrival without waiting, an existence without arrangement. We do not give consideration to illusion, so we feel injustice. A longing built, invisible, glowing, not extinguished. Unspoken, cast A bird that never left, its nest pure, its purity untarnished A longing that arranges, its cheerfulness wounded And a thought that exists, its calls slaughtered Flees to your distant meeting, like gathering the desert with hands Affection desires a corner of enchanting azure An archipelago of luminous, undulating reefs It desires something closer, nearer than this A meeting on the edges of notebooks, greeting the present with the present To your meeting, it extends the hands of the wind With an embrace from which no fragrance escapes, and a glimmer that cannot be fathomed Nearer than the mingling of rock sugar with saliva Or two drops in the vein Not like the magician's trick, but the melting of longing with feelings I am sorry, you I am sorry for the noise of collapses between my blood and my blood I am sorry that I am preoccupied with my pain I am sorry for meeting you at the stations of mirage I am sorry that I lost myself For loss and for the unraveling of a necklace And because I will hide you between one poem and another, And between the comma and the comma. I will hide you like an act I became addicted to, a thirst I never quenched, a pouring out of what I longed for, a confession I never told, a drowning I never saved. And the bewilderment… the bewilderment of the answer in the labyrinths of the question. After his astonishment… I spoke to him in the night, and his solitude answered me. There is no strangeness in his feeble sighs, Nor his moans, Nor the glimmer of sleeplessness in his eyes. A night that does not move his lips, and words wither in the blueness of writing, And he asks about my absence after the vanishing of the absent. Distances do not hinder, and how near the path is, Were it not for your gypsy addresses, walking in the footsteps of the sun. We were but a hair's breadth away, From a light that would violate our darkness. I do not know why I feel regret. I wish to apologize for a mistake I was unaware of, For something that makes me feel blamed, and whose secret place I do not know. I am sorry for a silent longing that burns. My eternal, sorrowful night feels you, a majestic night embracing the gentleness of the fields and the stroll of the ascetics. We wished, without a doubt… wishes were a simple presence, an arrival without waiting, an existence without arrangement. We give no weight to illusion, and thus we feel wronged. A longing built, invisible, glowing, unquenchable, cast, unspoken. A bird that never left, its nest pure, its purity untarnished. A longing that arranges, its joy wounded, a thought that exists, its calls a sacrifice. It flees to your distant meeting, like gathering the desert in the hand. Affection yearns for a corner of enchanting azure, an archipelago of luminous, undulating reefs. It desires something closer and nearer than this, a meeting on the edges of notebooks, greeting the moment with the present. To your meeting, it extends the hands of the wind, with an embrace from which no fragrance escapes, and a glimmer that cannot be fathomed. Nearer than the mingling of rock sugar with saliva, or two drops in a vein. Not like a magician's trick, but the melting of longing with emotion. I'm sorry, my love. For the clamor of collapses between my blood and my blood. I'm sorry for being preoccupied with my pain. I'm sorry for meeting you at the stations of mirage. I'm sorry for losing you, like a necklace breaking, and for hiding you between one poem and the next, between the comma and the line. I'll hide you like an act I've become addicted to, a thirst I haven't quenched, a pouring out of what I've longed for, a confession I haven't told, and a drowning of what I've survived. — Bridges of Infinity Aqel Al-Ayyash 2/5/2017

 

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