| For
You
I
tried to nurse your revolution,
and the meaning of destroying idols.
The alphabets of love rebel against the pen,
and love, unclouded, challenges the passing years.
I tried to make of you a lifetime's cry
in the face of the days approaching.
Or at least a drop of ink that drowns the printed lies.
I tried, but I have failed, I have failed.
The revolution is made of pain,
and the ice in your eyes was that dream's grave.
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My
Beloved
Embrace
me, embrace me
for I am escaping a desolate yesterday
running through lonely streets
dismal as a jungle night
in a world where justice is a lonely legend
written in blood
and truth is a hermit
with shoulders grown weary
under the weight of sorrow.
Embrace
me
Gather the fragments of my self
That I shattered on the wheel of illusion.
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| The
Map
When
I examined the map of myself,
I wept, I cursed the seas and oceans
of love.
All the suffering of souls, every unfinished prayer, every
unwritten poem, and every unread letter.
I felt there was nothing that knew me; nothing that could make
me cry, or live through the storm.
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|
Diurnal
(1)
Oh! From the morning when sadness
wraps my life. And when I look in
the mirror the seasons of the tragedy
become naked.
The drops of water are cold,
cold as lovers' night in their autumn
years.
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| A
Tear and a Question
Tell
me why a smile dies
on
lips that don't know pain?
And
why tears would stop
in
regret
to
be replaced by weariness in the eyes?
Tell
me why happiness departs,
departs
as a bird.
The
tree becomes without the sound of
music.
Tell
me why the silence of graves
fills
the hearts
and
the joy gets lost in tunnels
of
illusion?
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|
The
Story of Owadeen
In
summer and at harvest time
We love to gather in front of the dukan
To sit and talk after a round of tea.
Some roll their smokes, some tinker with waterpipes,
And we look toward Owadeen.
The big talker.
We're wearing our white galabiyas,
Some of silk, some of rough cotton,
Except Owadeen, who wears a suit.
He sports a hangman's noose around his neck...
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