ما بين قلمها و طرسها نور يرتد من نعاس عينيها وما بين كل انملين كتاب فان اعطى سعف الباسقات ظل فما بين سبابتها و ابهامها بستان فواصله اقحوان واوراقه اردان على سطورها يزهر النارينج فنكتال بهرا ونكتحل دهشه فلا لوام لتلميذ اراد ان يرسم بين عينيه فراشة يطارد الوانها وتمده بربيعها فترحل الى شرفاتها اليعاسيب
يافعها يصير كهل وكهل اعادته يافع تفتح للهفة نافذه فتصير الابواب مهجوره تطل من عليائها تواضع و يصير الغياب ليل يغشاه اشتياق تمد للحنين جسرا معلقا في نهايته اللانهاية ماشطاتها كوكبة الثريا تجلس في عليائها لنرى ملامح الشمس هي الحقيقة المطلقه فلا يسوءها جاهل او متجاهل هي النسيم مالذي تفعله بجناحيك ياطائر هي البشارات ان توارت الاعياد سراج اين ماحلت مبجله اين ما تجلت جنان ادب ياورد والوجهة يافنار والامان برِها وبرها اقم عند شطئانها جوسق فاعذرينا ان التهمنا ابجديتك بشراهة
~
Between her pen and her palimpsest is a light that bounces off the slumber of her eyes, and between every two fingers is a book, and if it gives the fronds of the vines a shadow, then between her index finger and her thumb is a garden, and its interstices are chrysanthemums, and its leaves are roses, and on its lines the citronella blossoms. In its spring, the dragonflies fly to its balconies
Her youth becomes old, and her return is young. She opens a window for eagerness, and the doors become deserted. She looks down from her height. Humility, and absence becomes a night covered by longing. She extends for nostalgia a bridge suspended at its end. Infinity brushes her. The Pleiades constellation sits in her heaven so that we can see the features of the sun. She is the absolute truth, so the ignorant or ignorant person does not harm her. She is the breeze. What is she doing? With your wings, O bird, are the good news. If the holidays are hidden, they are a lamp. Wherever they are, they are venerable. Wherever they appear, the gardens of literature, O Ward, and the destination, O Lighthouse. And the safety of its land and land. Stay at its shores. So forgive us if we voraciously devoured your alphabet.
