When he wakes up from his sleep and when he falls asleep in the gloomy morning and the joyful evening, he repeats, raving: No, there is no time left, there is no time for death, he sniffs the trail on the threshold as a wolf sniffs his urine in a moment of fury in the circle he drew for departure. There is no time for the phrase to shiver from the cliff of his being, falling from the trees of the deep unconscious, blocking the horizons and roads for him, and sometimes raining on the body of a woman who illuminates the end of the dark tunnels.
You groaned as if you were touched by lightning and madness when the hoopoe touched you, and before it got lost in your deep depression, you shone with weeping as the thirsty and barren earth when it rains, a thread of volcano splits from its womb.
Are you a king or sky? To forget your knights in the cloud of their transient dreams, and to ignore the vocabulary of promise at the forefront of your reign?
Now you fold your round table, polish the thoughts of your horses with the most fearless spurs, and sing the desert anthem to sailors on the road, and women at home. But who listens to you, when you are ignorant of Surat Douha and forget the catalog of legends? And it goes forth armed with laws to convince a people exhausted by their residence in the prison of the sea, to accept the shackles of the land, a people quenched by the acidity of thirst, a people overwhelmed by illusions shattered by illusions.
You exaggerated in sharpening the sword with the lust of the stone. You matched the rock with your heart. Justice mixed with the king's indiscretion. Are you the war against your people? Or are you peace be upon him?
Here you exaggerate your stare whenever a person passes in front of you who is overwhelmed by the delusion in his being, a person who collapses, clinging to the nostrils of a fading person whom we roam in a hive of wheat in the hope that the miracle will rise in his organs. We perform a prayer for him for which the king and the kingdom line up.
How would you like us to believe you're waiting? How can your texts sealed with the ivory of our bones read the fortune for us, while polishing a crown for you, which you inherit every morning like a date that worsens in the nightmares of our lost night?
The soldiers who witnessed death, even if you put them in heaven, will not be happy because their souls are addicted to panic.
Alone now in the forest, befriend the beast and open your suspicious heart to him.
Why do you despise me as long as you are not in me? And you will never cease to exist unless my image is in you. Every hurt in love from you, if it appears, I give him my gratitude in the place of my complaint.
By seeing the beloved’s eyebrow, and not by seeing the crescent moon, Eid is confirmed...
Walter Benjamin said that a child's first experience with the world is not his realization “that adults are stronger than him, but rather his discovery that he has no magical powers.”
In the morning
I speak to a thirsty rose
Because there is water
In the body of lovers.
I speak to a thirsty rose
Because there is water
In the body of lovers.
In the beginning, there were names. In paradisiacal solitude nothing forced beings to escape: isolation is a matter of hell and poetry is a leap, unanimously and in despair, from hell to union.
Behold, I pray, that every word be pure; Like the silence of Eve, I pray that every speech of a body is equal; His silence. To complete the beauty equation.