A keresés eredménye

The Color Of Her Eyes

When asked about the color of her eyes, Mahmoud Darwish said:
... I don't know, every time I look into her eyes, I lose my memory...
 
~~❀•❀•✿❀•❀•~~
 

Delighted with Something Invisible

Give us, love...
 
Your whole abundance.
 
To fight the honest war of the sentimental.
 
The climate is suitable
 
and the sun sharpens our arms in the morning.
 
O love!
 
We have no end but to lose in your wars.
Hence, Triumph! To Triumph!
And hear your praise from your victims:
Triumphed! blessed your hands!
And return to us, as losers... and in peace!
Delighted with something...invisible,
I was walking, dreaming of a blue poem with two lines,
With a joy that in a lightweight,
Visible and invisible together.
 
Who doesn’t love now,
 
In this morning.
 
Will not be loved.
 

I am from there... I am from here

He says..
 
I am from there... I am from here
 
And I am not there, nor here.
 
I have got two names that meet and
depart.
I have got two languages
I’ve forgotten in which I used to dream.
 
I have got for written an English one
Whose words are at my disposal.
And another from the heaven’s dialogue
with Jerusalem.
 
With a sliver accent,
 
But it does not obey my imagination.
 
And the identity? I asked.
 
He said: Self-defence...
 
Identify is the daughter of birth.
 
Yet, in the end, it the creation
 
Of its owner.
Not inheriting a past.
 
I am the multiple.
 
Inside my resides my renewable outside.
 
But I belong to the victim’s question.
 
Hadn’t I been from there,
 
I would have trained my heart
 
to raise there the gazelle of metaphor
 
So, carry your country wherever you go
 
And be a narcissist if necessary.
 
Exile is the outside world.
 
Exile is the inner world.
 
So, who are you between them?
 
I do not define myself lest I lost it.
 
And I am who I am.
 
I am my other-self in a duality that
 
blends between speech and reference.
 
Had I been writing poetry, I would have said:
 
I am two in one.
 
Like two wings of a swallow.
 
If spring was late,
 
I would be content
to give the good tidings.
 

A little Evening

A little Evening
 
Over a neglected Village,
 
and two eyes..sleepin
 
I recall thirty years and five wars
 
and I bear witness that time..
 
Hides for me..
 
A wheat stalk
 
The singer sings..
 
about fire and strangers
 
and the evening was evening
and the singer was singing
 
and they interrogate him
 
Why do you sing?
 
He answer them:
 
”Because... I sing”
 
and they have searched his chest,
 
and they found nothing but his heart
 
and they have searched his heart,
 
and they found nothing but his people
 
And they have searched his voice,
 
and they found nothing but his sorrow
 
and they have searched his sorrow,
 
and they found nothing but his prison
 
and they have searched his prison,
 
and they found nothing but themselves
confined in chains.
and the evening was still evening
and the singer was still singing.