ثم لم تعد تسأل , اين كانت هذه الدروب , اين كنت منها , متى وكيف نضجت , ثم لم تعد تقول شيء عنها او حتى لا شيء , ولآنها بدونك مضت , تأخذك الريبة وتكبر اكثر وتبتعد الى اقصاك تبحث عنك في يهماء ومفازة ,تفيق من دربك في القرى المهجورة والسراب الضحل , تمرك ريح نكباء تدبر لك امرا تود ان تخاف منه , لم تعد تستأنس سوى النوافذ المطلة على الصرير ولمح اطياف مدن مر بها الغزاة وغادرتها الحروب المجروحة
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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
