مثل جبل عظيم انهار وبقي عاليا كالكثيب كلما هبت ريح التلف وانطوى على نفسه وكل جزء يطير منه يتنهد , صار صحراء والغائبين مسافات نائية
Like a great mountain that collapsed and remained high as a dune whenever the wind of destruction blew, it folded in on itself, and every part of it that flew sighed. It became a desert, and those who were absent were remote distances.
هما جفنين كسدين لنهران يحجتزان ماء اجاج لاذع وسيل عاطفة وفيضين
لديا اكثر مما اظن
تناهيد جمة ونزف عتي وحنق اوداج وحرقة وتين
ليس شاحبا وجهك المتعب التائه بين سمائين
ليس الا انا واياي انت وحكايا الشجن الباذخ الحسرة المفرطين في ترجمان اللهفة الحائران في زمزمة الإلفة كالميم الساكنة بين شفتين
اعيدني ارجعني من وجودك الهش من مجازات المعاني من صمتك المحكي المدون على مرايا السراب المصقول من جذوة وآلمين
اعيدني ارجعني صوبك من توقك الوارف الى اغنيتك الخفية وامكنتك السريه
اليك حيث كنا كطفلين يتيمين اعاد لهما الموت عاطفة مفقوده ليرتديا اثواب عيد وابتسامتين وافرتين السرور لنرانا ويتواضع الغرور ويذعن لبراءتنا الاتية من عليين
اعدني اليك من غربتي وطهر بدمعتي احزان العالم المترامي الآسى وقيد رسغ الكآبة وازرع في عتمة شمس وقمرين
ليس شاحبا وجهك المتعب اننا ها هنا وافرين الظل والشمس وحبيبة غائبة ويوم عاطل بالعزلة كشرنقة تلحفة بلهفة ودهشتين
ها هنا نحن روح بجسد وتلف طافر وضياع سادر بين حيرتين
~
Your tired face is not pale
I lost your addresses and I don't know where
Your call to travel pains me
My nostalgia bothers you
And a pen
I don't know why he's crying with me
He writes in a language that hurts me. He lights a candle with my fingertips. He draws a code. He demands from me an inkwell and two tears.
I also have pale autumn paper in my pocket
On it are two lines from a poem that will never...no, never be completed
The first of them is an absence that overflows with reproach for the one he loves and a distance that does not separate two souls
At the end of them, a life framed between two bodies
A possible life, not lived and two deferred fears
I have amazing, intelligent eyelids that blink at all photos
In them are the likes of my loved ones, the remains of joy, a brook, tadpoles of frogs, trees of wormwood, acacia, and coyote, a cliff, and two doves.
They are eyelids
Like two rivers holding back bitter, brackish water and a torrent of emotions
And two overflows
I have more than I think
Heavy sighing, heavy bleeding, jugular irritation, burning, and sciatica
Your tired face is not pale, lost between two skies
There is nothing but me and you and me and the stories of lavish sorrow and heartbreak, excessive in interpreting eagerness, confused in the whisper of familiarity, like a meme silent between two lips.
Bring me back from your fragile existence, from the metaphors of meanings, from your spoken silence recorded on the mirrors of the mirage, polished from embers and pain.
Take me back, take me back to you, from your intense longing to your hidden song and your secret places.
To you, where we were like two orphan children. Death brought back a lost emotion for them, so that they could wear Eid dresses and smiles full of joy to see us, and vanity would be humbled and submit to our innocence coming from above.
Bring me back to You from my exile, and purify with my tears the sorrows of the vast, sorrowful world and the chains of gloom, and plant in the darkness a sun and two moons.
Your tired face is not as pale as we are here, abundant with shade and sun, with an absent lover and an idle day in isolation, like a cocoon wrapped in a quilt with eagerness and amazement.
Here we are, a soul with a body, mutilated, and lost between two confusions