Marbels were left on the carpet, The way we studied arabic letters out, We loved arabic teachers, Since they were the closest thing to the sun, We picked wings as the dream, Since the night cup is filled to the brim, Snap necks to the sun, Then snap back.
Yesterday i sat alone at the library, I was full, Today it was full, Someone talked about art, then language, And i listened to no one, I was busy with language and art.
We dashed by the sea, We’re the new rivers wave, A new set of medals, Hanged from the eyes of her days, Our hero/monster bets changed seasonally, According to which house of young hearts appear, We appealed to all the suns of the world, Except for the good hearts rocketeers.
Light stays home, As long as home is out of reach, My heart is still learning each day, That the meaning of prayer is still far away, And our meaning is what we paint, Both my eyes conceived a different light stray, My heart, on the same page of this unknown, As the many empiral books we delay.
Since when my heart excepts a spring, And colors are used to sort poems out, Since when i read my old ones and grin, Twinkling from the promised one and ones to come, Since when you re-learn the entire everything again, At 25 from a shrinking holy violet, A scratch through your souls is when, Art is like walking for the first time, You’re reborn, you’re reborn, from pain, Not of yours alone, of everyone’s, Collection figurines under a tree, The stem is colored by a marble pen, Like you, Fine you, from the basement.
Everyone that was once, Taught me a color of god, I sit in places where one color starts, Waiting for another one to take a part, I see the dark now, And i call the wind, To the other side, Sending me ropes to you.
If i was a fictional creature i would’ve been me, If i was real i would’ve been waves, Everyone is real as waves, And my god is their god, So i swear to their god, Clinging to life, craving, Colorful ropes, endless grounds.
At the end of the world it won’t be snowing, But it will be snowing at the end of mine, Still life leans towards living, Trying all in thyself, To separate having it all and giving it up,
Every day is a certain something for everyone, Yesterday was it for us, But we’ll leave it behind, If we were two characters in a novel; series, Would the audience root for us? We’re not stuck out, nor defined, It’s fine to be though, Only by a memory in the snow.
Yet were there, Over the horizon, Sitting still wondering through, Glimpses of us, That was being inside colors, We are here, Of the world, From the world, That was always, will always, be.
قلبي في سواد كانون، يمشي لمسعى لنجاة، فوق ألم الهضبة المضائة، لماذا أبقى؟ يهيئ لي إني نسيت، ولكن أبقى، لتمرة وسجدة.
قلبي إلى وجه الفجر يتجه، إلى المنسيات، أو لبيوتك المحفوظة، دون وجه، دون حبال نجاة، مئة وجه في يوم واحد، لا درب للألم، عندما تحمل نفسك بشنطة، سائلاً عن خبز الغراب.
من أي عطش تشرب الوردة، من أي وجه يحن الطريق، من أي وجعٍ تُخلق جنة، من أي ضحكة يروى بحر الغريق؟
قلبي في سواد كانون، مضاءً بعدسة كاميرا، ببوابة تائهين في الأرض والسماء، بدفء عرقٍ مالح، بإنعكاس الغيم على وجهك.
يتطلع إلى ألوانٍ لم تدرك، لم تُرى، إلى فنٍ خائف، إلى شخصٍ خائف، كصورٍ مرسومةٍ بقهوة، بكُحل أولاد موزعة، على أبحارٍ نهائية، خائفين منا علينا، والألم يبقى، يسقي السبل ضيئ، يغمض على حلاوة سخريتك، وقبة خضراء، وراء بيوت صفراء، تهديهم، ومعطف لأسلاف الأرض، يحضن الأرض، يروي رسائل لكفاحك، خارجها، بٌعد السماء، لورقة، لتمرة وسجدة.
When i look beautiful i look exactly like my grandma, I loved sunsets the way that mother’s do, I took my life to the sun, The midnight one, Of my falling spring, falling over a mountain, At a world that will see the beginning, As it will see the end, Both of them holding hands, I want to hold hands, With the sunsets of the sea, While i run at sea floors, knowing, Running is actually hugging sunsets.
I loved people who had faces, Of many oranges and yellows, Who can’t face me nor themselves, While i face the inner lane, Of my films and theirs, And films yet to never come, And films too good to ever come.
Timelines are getting near, Mercy killer, merry blood moon, Over that mountain, While no climbers are born.. And no climbers and born, No climbers, no caves, Sea floors were missed, are.
Sunsets aren’t set as a lover, But a way to go, Although a lover was a sunset once, Both of them were on the go, So let’s go where thehy take us, over the mountain, Missing sea floors.. Where the world ends and ours begin, Searching for a way in, To climbing it all, and quiting it out.
إلهي، الأقرب لوريدي، إني لست بموسى ودون عصا، نجني من تولي أحدٍ عنك، حتى الملائكة، ولكن أخبرني، صديقي الحفيظ: إن الدنيا في كف تتقلب، وأنا أركض بلا كفوف، على وجهين، بوجهين، بلا قلب قادر، الحب الذي فلقته يغرقني؛ ماذا أفعل به؟ أين أتجه إليه؟ في أي بحر دموع أسكبه؟ وأنا الغريق بلا حبال الحجة التي ألقيتها على وجودي مذ خلقتني، إلهي أنت خلقتني وأعلم بذلك عند كل رائحة ورق، وعينٍ لا ترمش عندما ترى الجمع، ترى بكثرة، عند أطراف الليل وأنا أركض حافياُ بجنبك، ذاهبٌ معك، راغباُ إليك، ولا أعلم، رب ِ إرحمني عندما أركض إليك مٌكملاً حافياً عرياناً، غير راجياً إلى إياك، كما الأن، كما كل آن، ولا أبكي لبعد الأمل، أو لضيق الدنيا أو هوان النفس، ولا خوفاً من كهوف الدهور، ولا لدهشة الوجود، إنما لملجأٍ حنون لا يسع إلى لمن أرادك، وحب لا يُملأ إلا ببابك، وعلمٍ إنه لا خيار بالعوم إلا بنهر إختيارك، إني لست بموسى ودون عصا، أريد التعلم دائماً.
رب إجعلني شهيداً على المباني المنملة، والنمل المٌبني، والعيون الهائمة، والرجايا القاطعة، وهذه ليس أنشودة حزينة، إنما أملٌ يبحر كقلاعٍ شرقية، نحو شمس رحمتك في منتصف ليلٍ شتائي.
A café on the corner, Sought to be owned, Everyone standing there, sitting, Sought to be owned, By a life at a certain café, To feel as something, Something grander than thyself, They sit, we sit, To drink something warmer than we’ll ever be.
The next war, I’ll take a side against the places, Of people, against cats, thinking they like cats, If park winds demanded to; Jesus stood on water, I’ll stand by the wind, The silent one hearing my unbelonging, Our happy unbelonging, Since my belonging was for the set of us, Never wanted a set, Of me nor a grand streak of thy.
A set of dejavu’s, In a lane of lives, 30% dreaming rule, Layers of smiles, liking someone, 40% limit theory, Layers of trials, 6 degrees of separation, Layers of tryouts, Life ends and all you did was: Smiles, trails, tryouts, If all we were but set of tryouts, Then we are out of cafés, Out there, Out being a grand thing, Seatbelts and sea floors, Seatbelts and sea floors..
For i know that god is gracious, Atlantis will be illuminated someday, Carrying me on its back, For then I’m gonna dig yellow, Play the role, Seatbelts and sea floors, Kitchen sinks, and park winds, Staying out of cafés, with them, Without others, with them, Atlantis on the back, Warm tea against all galactic track.
I was going to sleep, But a chocolate bar from my sister saved me, Sister’s are born to save you. Even when doing nothing, I’ll let tomorrow sleep instead of me, Since I’m not there yet, And she’ll be gone soon, I’ll learn to be thankful when there’s no time, I’ll learn, i laugh.
I read soom shitty poetry, Then i thought of the self i am, Of the people, Always betting on me, Can’t sleep, While i feel recovered, After bleeding myself on the hills, Someone said you should repeat again, I said i should repeat again, When you let tomorrow sleep, You crave poetry and pain, The pain, that shit is real, When the world is doomed anyway, You were there but it was here, left, Bleeding on the hill, Ten times, more times to come, Ten selves, of you, left out.
I learned of archetypes the other days, I want to be the one who reads, I want to read, It’s not listed there, Neither am i, Ten selves, i left out, Only left the one who reads, The world is doomed, And talks are too, I just want to talk to people who read, They saw it too, Us that is not here, Only them, Us that came from here, Choose another way, The way of chocolate, The throwing of another day, Ten times, more times to come, To remember what tells us we were real.
In a year my wings might grow, That was the point of hills, Against sunsets, And i might not be here, if so, Take them and put it in my books, Left, in a world of no suns, Left, with a wish to fly, To sunsets yet to come, A year or sum, To yours, To sister’s, to mom.
I heard the sound of the coffee pot, Steaming, Thinking it has been made by someone else, I didn’t notice that i was the one, Being made there, With it, They tell me I’m sad or that i look so, I tell them i don’t understand so, I really don’t know, I’m happier than the sea, If it was, If it could ever be. أغفر كذبي يا الله، لأني أخبرتهم إني ذاهب إلى مكان أخر، في الحقيقة ليس هناك مكان أخر، فقط ذاهب إليك، دون مكان، فقط مع شعور راودني في ليلة شتوية قديمة.
It was me against the teapot every midnight, Will I beat the teapot someday? If I won, I’ll make a cup for my grandma, She is gone, so I’ll go to the sea. If it wins, I’ll turn into one, For my mom in her kitchen sink.. My ring of power was in the kitchen sink. I was a kitchen sink, After a long run, quite often. I’m left standing against it, quiet, often, Every summer’s winter.
Circles of the circled life reflected in the boiling red, Waiting for me to transform, Shrinking myself in my sleeves, Sinking with it. A call for evenings, windy autumn evenings: Of no one, no time. Of no one, no one in time. It’s fine to be a red. It’s fine to be a tea red. Will i be a teapot one day?
She was a silent girl, not any sort of silence you come across, not in the sense of speaking nor talking, but the one you have in a village afternoon. She had a dream last night that she was painted violet, not the one you paint your face with, not any violet, like the ones you use as a canvas background. She woke up to a white world, where she was not white. All of this is known already, and all of this is daily. What was also daily is her ability to tolerate super hot tea in super hot weather, since hot tea demands not a high level of peace, but some high level of “wanting” peace. And thus, everyone was green. It was greeny. She felt green. Every time she looked, she saw. She could be green too. And she never wanted. She thought about the purple dream again, but it’s not like she didn’t want to be that. It’s just that she didn’t think she’s capable of that. Violet demands to be larger than life. And she just wanted to be out of it, even while being so small. She picked up a knife and sliced the shadows, since night was all the space. And from there, shapes were people playing on instruments. Never as the people here, while with the same instruments. Those visions would only last a moment, because the moon can’t wait to leave. He is tiny too, like her, white too, like her. She asked herself, “Does the moon want to be colored violet too?” The next day, she painted the canvas with a violet background, but her friend beside her couldn’t see it. She just couldn’t. So then, she thought of her next step, and long she did. Then she remembered the sun… Oh, the facing sun, the white sun hitting her, her and the moon, every day and night, slapping them both each on a turn, both white from the sun!! And she’s been facing it every day, waking up, trying to deal with the sun and the world, and the worldly sun!!! Oh, and remembered her insides and liver and heart—how violet they are inside, trying to deal with this hot effort glaze. So she dumped her face in the color too and went outside, and as if a revelation has fallen upon her, no one did see her. She was unseen. She was out of this world. SHE WAS ON THE INSIDE. Yet she was still small! Hahahaha, she laughed hard for 5 sec. So her role wasn’t done yet. She needed to be larger than life, and to take the moon with her too. She thought of him, Why does he need to bear it too? Why was he meant to stick to the sun for the rest of his cycle, and cycle around this globe with people who’s only gonna see him white? Why? BECAUSE OF THE SUN! And ask anyone, I dare you, go on, to paint a moon, they will always paint him white. They have no dignity for him. He affects their feelings on every tide and then, yet they don’t think of what he feels… They say, “Oh, the two or many sides of the moon…” HE only had always one side. So she went to paint him violet too, but alas, the background was already so. And the world is festive, and the stores are closed, and her heart is closed, and she was closed. So she went open, where she was hidden with the wind. And since the wind only felt her, it revolved around her neck. And revolved, and revolved, and revolved. Until a hurricane hit the city— A hurricane of shadows, the same that she cut. A hurricane of music, very familiar, of distant people, of distant lives… The music filled the streets, the festive streets, of the people of the now, of the unfamiliar music of them, that was taken away to the sea. And all was left is a city standing, watching the shore, with otherworldly music, howling the feet. And they could never stop it. And they could never withstand it—such beauty, both it and its source—they could never see. Then the hurricane gets bigger, as her days in the shadows increased, and it swallowed cities now, countries now, landscapes as far as the wind could reach. But people can’t eat music. People were fed up with more and more beauty. Silence is all they sought. They looked up. They saw two figures—the white rays of the sun, but it was noisy. The day is noisy. And the silence of the moon, now they see it—the other side of it, the only side of it, the one they only need. Thus, humanity set up to bring the moon down. They tied religions, sects, groups, and races over and over. All ropes were clear. This was a war on how to see and hear, against something they can’t see and hear— both the victim and the spear. To take the moon down, they had to tie it up and stop the sun from the reach. Once they hid it all up, the moon became purple. So it was now, finally, unseen. It was still tied, so it went down, on ropes of hopes, for something unclear. They brought it down, to the center of the hurricane. It was fitting inside the top of it—both dancing, both changing the world, both were never seen, and nothing like that was ever seen before. It was a vision, a scenery from the end of the world—something magnificent, something… larger than here. A music was played—a music for the seen, a music begged the world to be put on a canvas. All of them. All of us. Violet spheres of faces and moons, painted violet, all coming from dreams, coming for you, world! To be larger than you, because we were born to show the insides—ever hidden, ever bleeding, ever real. Thus, the world created a canvas as its final act. The only salvation was art. And the hurricane girl, the moon, the music—were all mixed together and put to it. The canvas was all violet colored, and over the sea, it disappeared… A seagull flew near and landed beside a sleeping girl, making sounds, maybe for food. Woke her up from her dream. She had fallen asleep while sitting alone on the beach. Got up, she was at ease, she smiled in peace, made her hot tea, gazed at the sea.
zaki monzer 