She sleeps... and in her eyes, a blue bird
With its smooth feathers, a radiant moon
The joy of the night dances in its pulse
And praises are poured out upon its ears
With its beauty,
Your Lord has not fashioned a bird
And with its love,
The whispers of time are suspended
This stranger, enlightened by his thought
Poetry perfumed with fragrance and lilies
His loved ones, count the minutes and rest
For you will see the places gazing at the stranger
No Do you think
That separation elevates his status?
For the earth, at the sound of his words, yearns.
Before his departure,
How the hills longed for him,
As rain... and a verdant dream blossoming.
She whispered to him, her limbs intoxicated:
Return, my beloved, for dew cannot be burned.
What did he care...
He bled pride into a poem,
And upon its meanings, a banner flew high.
His dreams are as vast as the horizon,
And his longing is a pain
That nests in the heart and burns.
He gave Happiness was their enemy,
So, they whispered amongst themselves,
Conspired, threatened, and tore each other apart.
Nothing could drive them
To the caravan of destruction,
Were it not for vice beckoning them to create.
Who said: The dawn of childhood will save them
From their folly, when their suns never rise?
They roamed...
And destroyed our crops and our families
With our spittle,
They aged the vinegar of leadership
And I felt his love and tenderness
How wonderful it would be
If they breathed in his air
They practiced virtue, unintentionally
And were inoculated with love, then tasted it
Our lives are not measured by days
And with the morning, we give away our lives
Our poets, our writers, our critics
They wove innocence into a cloak
And embellished it
They returned the poems For the tents,
their concern is that no fool
Should compromise authenticity
Their oar is a hand that tames their abandonment
And on their fingers, a boat wobbles
O son of Arabism, do not ask, for their eyes
Grow more enchanting when they are sleepless
So, write, my writer, do not fear, a poem
That the sunset and the sun
Have grown weary of hearing
Sing, may my Creator help you, in exile
For perhaps you will be liberated therein.
**
