كلما اجدني مليء بالامل ادرك ان الوهم موجع
سنابلك على ديمومة نيسان خضراء يسقيها نبضك ولو جف جلدك
في رطوبة وتظلها الضباب
وحسن حظك جهام على امتداد التعاسه
ولكي تشعر بالطمأنينه تنزوي الى ظلك
تلقي على مسامع البؤس قصيدتك المشروخه
تود ان تنهي الوهم وهو اطول من الاماني
وانت في بحث دائب عن تفاسير للسارحة في الليل
شخوص
وهي تصغي يصفعك حد الوريد صمتها
الم ولا جدوى من البكاء
تبدو الابتسامه زفيرك المكبوت
وكل ماحولك مثقل
حتى الصباح
والمساء عاري السواد وغيابك ذلك الوميض
نضج بالضوضأه
وتنضج على جذوة الحنين سحمته
اغفوا على سجع آللالآم وهي في قبضتي
يهمس وتوقظني قداسته
لين العود
دمث الطريق
وثير مركبه
حادي للشجن
فأدمنته رحيل
When I find myself filled with hope, I realize that illusion is painful.
Your ears of corn are green in perpetuity, watered by your pulse, even if your skin dries up.
In humidity and shaded by fog.
Your good fortune is bleak throughout misery.
And to feel reassured, you withdraw into your shadow.
You recite your cracked poem to the ears of misery.
You wish to end the illusion, which is longer than hopes.
And you are in a constant search for interpretations for the characters wandering in the night.
While she listens, her silence slaps you to the point of a jugular vein.
Pain and there is no point in crying.
A smile seems your suppressed sigh.
And everything around you is heavy.
Until morning.
And the evening is naked in black, and your absence is that flash.
It ripens in the noise.
And its smut ripens on the ember of longing.
I fall asleep to the rhyme of pain, while it is in my grasp.
He whispers, and His holiness awakens me.
Soft. The Oud
A gentle path
A comfortable mount
A singer of melancholy
So I became addicted to it with departure
-
The melancholy of night and the sanctity of departure
