To be loved is to live in the childhood of a friend, And to be lived at yours.
Heaven on earth is, a tear from a friend or two, Heaven on earth is to find some two to grieve and smile to, A butterfly stuck on the cieling, Your eye stuck on her death, Empty stadium seats for our shadows to sleep at, The fear of tomorrow is our safe pillow hat, As long as I’m alive there are infinite chances: To wake up, eat, and map, New roads, old countires; Their capitals are the best memory of a friend.
To be loved is to live in the childhood of your friend.
To be alive is in trying one last lap of that, We’ll be fine if, Our home in past visions of desk, The planet is dying to get on tv, We were living in a pocket screen, Some people wait for the end of times, While we lived it all, It was never in the future but in our little arms, somewhere inside there, A sunshine cave install.
Born to be horses, bet on, Where do you see yourself? In a world that won’t last, We don’t wake up much anymore to know, The empire against imperialism wouldn’t be switched, Beyond it is just a gap for the world before the flood again: Jobs automated, less work, More work for fast: foods, clicks, doings, comes, goes, writings, it all.. More clinging to life that won’t cling, More labor based countires for laborless souls, More quantity for a sea that amounts nothings, More orgs-controlling machines for wider audience of dreams, More busy for socials to just blind a light, Everyone, everyone, and an abyss of fast sands.. No more reading, No more whys, No more love to learn, to stay, To play, to feel real, work real, to even die, Give me arts and sports for sides of faces, Chess is for lights, Doctores is for doctors, Oppressions clearly seen from stages, Preparation for the biggest stage heald, No one wants to work for a land, While made from land, So everyone will eat food that goes down, Your sand, your body, A health nation built to need doctors, Basing on ai researches and medications, And while everyone is busy asking if it’s good or bad, Of it all, Sense and nonsense, Continents and ants, Good and evil: Next revolution is for the why’s ahead, The next world is for the why’s ahead, The next Adam and Eve are for the us ahead that won’t arrive if not Martyred.
إن كل ما كان، قائم كان أو غير قائم، كائن على مبدأ واحد: إن كل ما في الوجود وحيد. هذا ليس نصا حزينا او راكنا الى انطوائيةٍ او عزلة، بالعكس، إن كل ما في الوجود قائم على الوحدة كحالة طبيعية. وأن كل ما يقوم به من تفاعلات اجتماعية وعلاقات وكونه جزء من اسرة ورفاق ومعجببن و و و.. هو خلق لصور، صور حيوات، لا تقدر ان تخفي الوجه الأصلي، ولا ان تهرب من الحالة الاصيلة التي يعود لها أينما كان. في حياة او موت، فرح او حزن، صلاة او كفر، شبع او جوع، حفلة أو مأتم.. كله ضمن سياق طبيعي لكي يعود إلى ما كان يجب أن يكون، او يعيه. ان ما يقام من حروب، هو بسبب الوحدة. كل ما يكتب، هو بسبب الوحدة. ما يبتكر، ما لا يبتكر، هو بسبب الوحدة. ما ينكسر وينجبر هو بسبب الوحدة. وما يسير يسير لها، لانها الطريق الوحيد لتفتح عين الوجود الى كل ما يجب ان يعود الى حالته الطبيعية ولو بعد مئة، مئات الاعوام، في مختلف الامكنة والطرق والمطافات. إن الحياة متشعبة بطريقة لا يمكن ان تعرف اي مغزى من جميع انهارها ابدا الا بصدى قطرة في نهاية المحيط في اخر عمر او زمان او نفس.
Still details of a wide alive. Two loving horses in snow, love. A dying cow at the shore, that lives as the dying sea approaches. A deer waiting in the migration season for someone’s trace. Another fesring, living, fearing, dying. Window lady hugging tree crows. A sad fast sea storm. Was the balcony of the heart always close by the sea this near? A lion saw existence at a certain evening and decided to sleep. Snow sheep in snow hugs. Why are snow globes a common memory for dogs, foxes, trees? A certain spring, it has to be bird windows again.. A bird once didn’t drown at the sea, but was shot instead, the mourning on the sand was held. Abandoned us, craved grounds. We were always more of a wonder than any view. What are buildings for? Ducks? When there is a sea? Familiar white scape, keep digging a space. Gateway to home, the wild one. Inside the branch of a tree exists a cow nation. Wondering which country has the most windows for a deep seen world.. Paying homage to a homeland tree. Burreal of pirates as seen by dogs at the end of an ice age. Humanity’s face through logs expression! It’s a wonderful night, isn’t it?
The top left corner of the bookshelf, The packing of bags, A sunbeam you saw at the 4th grade, you started existing from then, The final sleepover with your friends, the far trip calm trip too, The tought of playing with crayons, clays again, then the final cut of all the movies in your line, Many after life dreams of a more life, never knowing the end, Somewhere raindrops creak on a glass ceiling, and somewhere else an ice cream bus, Village ghosts were yesterday, today ghosts-our faith, Not waiting for a closure, anything orange, blue, But you.. you
An invitation for the sun was sent, That of, whats they call the world:
A reconciliation for a rest, The light blurs, Only when you enter the tunnel, not on any end, That’s why it’s best for you to sit at cinema halls alone.. In the absence of light.
Better to bleed your breath on tracks, To remind the awakening of the night, The night also wakes up, One summer amidst wind valleys, In your heart, The best quilt that warms you, Is the abyss that you cover with your eyes.
You saw the true sun, Between the silence of two heartbeats, Between the days of two wars, Between the rest of intervals, Between the layers of a biscuit, And you agreed to keep it hidden there, Eternal peace of a restfull sun, The true one.
We giggle at the one in the sky, Reconcile our fight with it, We face it, but laugh it off, You’re the true one; Let’s laugh of it, While we wake up, everyday, Day after day, From the scrambs left, Of dark cinemas, Chocolate bars, Empty books, Intervals breaths.
We try to decieve ourselves, That we were right, Heroes for a century, Logos over beds, We shine from our hearts.
أخر ميدالية في الحياة، دمعة في فنجان، أهم ميدالية في الحياة، دمعة في فنجان، من شيد مدن وألعاب فليرجع إلى حقول شاي أو دحنون، وليلتقي بسيدة قبعتها من قش، ويعطها ثياب ولدها الذي ذهب إلى ما كان ليكون فقط، وليخبرها، لهذا خلق الله الوجود ليكون ما يكون فقط، ولكننا شيدنا مدن وألعاب دون فناجين، وسماوات دون أسقف، وميداليات دون فائزين، وتركنا لك دمعة وثياب، إنظري إليهم لبضع قرون أخر وكوني ما قد يكون فقط
At the bottom of the staircase, a garden started to grow, I saw an old man sitting in the middle, while hundred thousand others weren’t there, My shadow wasn’t stable, so i was near, A sound rythms, a sun stopped, At the end only a plastic flower was left.
Life is just a window train, A journey towards the uprising, Rotate around a box, To rotate around the box, Opening the door, of lives in a life, Lifetimes in a sea shell, Never, ever count fish.. Just read books.
The great migration is on, Heading to depths of the aquarium, Bringing pain needed, For sun rays on sundays.
Can’t be shown on tv screens, Can be reflected on a beloved eyelashes, Can be reflected while walking on water, But we are in whale’s button enrolling.
Write, write, write.
The sea was running, And rested when it saw us, And all the songs that included “here”, Were always the ones to haunt you on, Were we the watchers or the keepers? If so when will tickets be out? When will castles sieze to remain, And horizons sieze to be looked over? You can rest when nothing remains.
The whole point of an upper yard: Finding your gift, Then gifting it away.
While poetry will die.. my friend, So keep a lamp in your heart until then, For a genie coming from some stamps, Who found his gift, And gifted all away, The highest pilgrimage was; men under the stars, Gifted all away, We’re caterpillars dreaming.
Someday if leaving, we will find, Through great dreams upstream, It will splash upon thy:
Wake up, the wind is howling outside, It’s the end of days, But we’ll postpone till another day, The sun is shining from one boardgame, Consisting of many hearts, Yours the winning piece.
Rotate around the box, enter the dungeons, Wake up and call that mess pure bliss, Moving at god speed, Only your mom knows what you mean, Towards the sparks:
The village evening dishwashing, Plants under snow, Ships made of our claying hands, Midnights of summer times, Doorsteps and old book shelves, Your grandpa’s closet scent, Cowboys laying on space, The station’s art galleries,
Symphonies made with a new instrument, Only to be used once, Symphony you hear on silent trees, That is us.. our lifetimes, Shall you shelf the shelves? Or do the pomegranate pilgrimages?
The box just assembled us, To gather the wind, And swim for a newborn heart.
وردتين لصباح اليوم، صباح قد تم كثرة الحديث معي فيه، وكثرة ما شربت مما يجب من حليب مع قهوة، إستمعت لمحاضرة عن الكلام، إثنتين، قرأن طويل، كتاب قصير، أنهيت العمل، جلست صامتاً مع صديق في ألم، أغلب الأصدقاء في ألم. دعيت لصلاتي أن تكون لهم لا لي، الهواء كان قوياً لكي ألغي تمرين سرعات، ولكن ما لبثت أن قررت، تمرين أدراج اليوم.. تلك الأدراج التي يتعب جميع الطلاب لتسلقها، خمس مرات ركض، ثم أدراج رومانية.. كله مع دم أسفل ركبتي، كم أفتقد للسرعة الطبيعية، وكم تفتقدني، ليس لدي أي موهبة، لدي دماء تحت قدمي، لست أملك أي شيئ من الدنيا، كل ما أملك هو ركضي وحيداً في الظلام، أنتهي وأحمد الله، ليتك تحلو، أصلي في الظلام، أنا والقطة، أبكي بحمد الحياة الجميلة، أنا أيضاً تألمت لهنا، وهنا، خلقت لكي لا أُرى، في ما كان هنا، رأيت الله عندما أقود بكل جرحي، رأيت الله عندي أسيح بعكس الهواء، رأيت الله عندما أصل إلى أقصى سرعة لي، فوق درج، لا أحد يتسلقه، رأيت الله في دمعي عند تذكر كل الأيام الأخرى، عند رأيتي لفتى صغير يأخذ نصيحتي، عند سؤال أحدهم عن تدريبه، عند تذكر دعاء صديق لي منذ عشرة سنين، للرزق لي بكمية نيتي، أبكي لجمال اللحظة، أنا والقطة والهواء، والمقعد الليلي، أحمد الله على الدماء، على عالم يفتح بابه ببكاء سري، بين وجنتيك، تسعى فقط إليه، غير تائه، في ماورائياته أقصى السعادة، والناس ضلوا طريق المعبد، عند الباب تزرع وردتين.
