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.
Rightness don’t wait for bridges,
Nor time,
At times you stand on the right side,
Others you just won’t be right in time,
We’ll die and we’ll be alright,
Feeding on your downfall,
Fearing kids coming up,
Waiting your eyes,
Searching in a dawn,
Their long lost fathers,
Craved ones too,
Since it was their time,
Knights of the night,
We’re lost under a sun,
Waiting for our time,
And everything will eventually be alright,
But we won’t be there,
With us.
I saw the wind,
Outside myself,
I saw the dark times,
Outside myself,
I saw everyone in roses,
Outside yourself,
I saw the yellow kid i need,
Outside a corner,
The tea was burning,
Outside our lungs,
I was in the making, would’ve been saved,
But i went outside.
I saw the wind,
Outside winter,
The monsters we ignored,
Outside the wind,
The truth is that everyone is left out there,
On the outside,
While roses were all,
Outside your skin,
We were left stranded on the long way home,
Both me and home,
Outside.
Cup of day,
Through days of doors,
That tells you to ask,
If it’s also a movie,
For trees, for your trees,
Holding your tears,
Like oranges, like brushes of sun,
Like i hold my head,
Holding to colors,
That you won’t color,
Only in my heart I’ll see,
When i hold a book,
Like your head, i won’t read,
You’ll run
You’re the one who runs, I’ll scream,
I’ll go, You’ll stick to a sky,
I won’t reach,
Full of colors,
Only of you,
Fishes of your world,
The joy of a lamp,
Reflecting my hand,
All yours the light,
All yours, the light.
ركضت مع الله مساءً،
لم يسبقني،
ولكنه كان أمامي،
أسعى نحوه في الظلام،
ذاهبُ منه إليه،
لم أسبقه،
وهو ورائي في كل شيئ :
نسيم الهواء المنقطع، وحدة الذكريات الساكتة..
ركضنا سوياً،
مع أنه أسرع مني بأبدية،
ولكن إنتظرني،
حتى أنا لم أنتظرني؛
أفقت في السابع عشر ربيعاً تحت وهج الشمس،
وأركض لذات السبب كل يوم،
إنما ليس اليوم،
اليوم ركضت مع الله مساءً.
I know I,
I’m bound to stay,
In the ocean of tears,
That i will never fear.
I know I,
I’m destined to run,
In the glimmering lights,
Of dark tracks & selves.
I know I,
I’m programed to stay,
At the childhood carpet,
In the system of dawn,
With the moon sun of life.
I don’t know I,
Which pencil to choose,
To carve our names
To stay in trees, castles,
Chambers of lost feelings, dreams.
I don’t know I,
Ways of heaven and hell,
I can’t even choose what to eat,
Ways to roll at each lap.
I don’t know I,
Where grandma went,
When she’s still opening doors,
Every night all the same clouds.
I know, I’m at the sea,
The usual one,
I know I’m the route,
The usual one,
I don’t know where to find them
The usual ones,
When I’m east to find,
At the usual one,
Something filled up my heart with nothing,
Someone told me not to cry.
إلهي،
إن المسير أضحى عبارة عن فائض،
فائض من أجوبة، دون سؤال
فائض من سؤال، دون نهر حب
فائض من نهر حب، دون بحر قلب
فائض من قلب، دون قالب ينهمر به، دون تعب
فائض من التعب، دون احلام
فائض من الاحلام، دون نوم
فائض من النوم، دون قدرة
فائض من القدرة، دون أمل
فائض من الأمل، دون وجهة
فائض من وجهة، دون شقاء
فائض من شقاء، دون دعاء
فائض من دعاء، دون إيمان
فائض من إيمان، دون يدين، وجوارح وشفتين، تركضان إلى أنهار شوق منسية،
تغرس نفسها في لمحات ذاكرة مرجوة ان تتلاحق، أن يبحر إليها، أن يتنور الوجود بها كما تُطهِر مسير من بهِا،
إلهي هذا فائض ووعائي منحتم الضيق، كشريان تاجي، لا يقوى.
Yesterday i was human,
Who forgot the face of his head,
But he had a good heart that heald the sand,
Today i am no longer human,
I woke up and greated my mom,
Now i am a train station,
Heading to black lights,
Tomorrow i am train seated, i can’t wait..
God created me this way,
Because i always liked people who were train seated in train stations heading to black lights,
I want to sit at the back seat next to the window.
zaki monzer 