Pity, this world could have very beautiful. Pity, this poem would have been so beautiful.
Like Moses, I strike the sky with my eyes, split a clear road between the clouds to your heart, only with faith.
What dust may the times stir, I shall inhale.
Like Moses, I inscribe my commandments into a religion of you: thaw shall not forget.
Lost souls flock together to create the reality everyone dreams about, and suffer the consequences.
دافئ،
كريح مرّت فوق قلبها
أتى صوتها.
كطعم لم يذق
يمر في البال
يوم الغياب
جسد مليئ بالتفاصيل
كل يوم،
سر صغير.
كانت ابتسامتها تسخر من كل شيء
دون أن تدري.
Escaping the deadlock of obsessively watching the minutes counter on a screen I had stupidly assigned as the indicator of love, I took to the streets.
The Egyptian guys who man the gas station on my block, about 7 of them, were, as usual, congregated around an improvised structure they had assigned as a table, were about to have dinner. I never made out what they have for dinner, but growing up in a poor family of 4 children with only the mother to support, I can take a guess.
They spend most of their time, most of them, to the confines of the gas station, after they finish work. A small TV set, that looks as much improvised as the table, is the only entertainment noticeable from the distance I usually observe them from.
Football, to be more specific. I’m not sure about the TV’s future was there noo football to be passionately watched, cheered and consumed. The vain quest after heroes that grant viewers an option, albeit theoretical, of escape to a better life.
How insignificant should I deem my own longing for one person I had assigned to be my only source of happiness, when facing the struggles of 7 men working most of the day, and trapped all of the night, by barriers of money and nationality, to a gas station?
What are they doing this for? Who are the people so deserving of them, to spend, waste, their lives for, in a gas station? Where are these people now? What are they doing? Where is it, they would each prefer to be, rather than here?
Others’ sacrifices, when seen in perspective, posses the ability to dwarf our own over-glorified, not sacrifices, but what we consider needs. What we consider necessary for our happiness, even how we define our happiness.
I cannot be utterly sure if they are happy. What I can be sure of, is how un-doubtful they always look.
When does their doubt set in? Late at night, before sleep, crammed I don’t know how many of them in a box? Before or after prayer? Weekends? Holidays? Or does it ever?
We might be pretending interest in others plights at a time we are merely avoiding our own doubts.
like a distant taste he kept under his skin
like poison, emperors keep near enough when honor was at jepordy, but hidden enough not to spoil looking at life.
like a fading memory he never left long enough to disappear completely, his words surved for colors of black and white natures
she was not sad, that dull content that replaced happiness. poisonous. addictive. unchallenging.
real defeat, is what comes slow, and patient, almost uncaring, this is when he realized too late, the scale of his defeat.
like rain spoiling fresh childrens drawings. too late to turn redicule into joy.
unconditional is the sun, unconditional is rain.
back to words, where it all began, back to where it’s all the same.
her smile, runs down the stairs, bare feet, pausing at every corner,
only long enough for him to see which way she went.
he followed, to the end of his life.
bare feet,
she walked into his room, and laid his heart on the bed, naked.
bare feet
she kissed his life.
reminiscant of times when we roamed green fields,
bare feet reminds him of how to joyfully give in, and take in.
her lips, his map.
كمن لا شكّ في خبزه ننظر الى المغيب بحثا عن سؤال الصباح.
نقف،
كمن يثق بالله،
كوردة على قبر
كي نقول أن الموت جميل.
كأننا نصدّق للفراق وجعا
أو سببا.
أو نصدّق أن الفراق استثناءا.
كان الصوت الآتي من الآتي من الغياب بصخب الشهوة ذاتها.
كل رصيف أو ظل في الذاكرة أطول بقاءا من الآن
كل إبتسامة يتيمة تروي المزيد من الغياب الآتي.
غدا، حين الموج كل ما يتبقى من صخب الليل
نقف على كل قبر،
كمن يثق بالله واليوم الآخرة
كما يليق بيوم الحداد
نبكي
كي نبن للأغاني مرافئً تودّع أفراحنا
نضحك، كي نسخر من قساوة وحدتنا، وهشاشة قسوتنا.
موتى بقدر ما نبكيهم فقط.
أحياء، بقدر ما نحيا
Alexandria shore, oh shore of love
When we went to Alexandria,
We got hit by love.
What happy life, and satisfying nights,
I carry in my eyes, from Alexandria shore
Alexandria shore, oh shore of love
When we went to Alexandria,
We got hit by love.
What happy life, and satisfying nights,
I carry in my eyes, from Alexandria shore.
The sea and his winds,
The sunken boat
His wounds he carries, and leaves into the dusk
Slowing down, he says his goodbyes slowly
And the water hugs
Alexandria shore.
Alexandria shore, oh shore of love
When we went to Alexandria,
We got hit by love.
What happy life, and satisfying nights,
I carry in my eyes, from Alexandria shore
For nights I walked you, shore of love
But may the dreams forget me if I forget you
For nights I walked you, shore of love
But may the dreams forget me if I forget you
My witness,
A moon song,
A sea breeze,
And Alexandria shore.
Alexandria shore, oh shore of love
When we went to Alexandria,
We got hit by love.
What happy life, and satisfying nights,
I carry in my eyes, from Alexandria shore
أيها البائس أبدا
إطو أوراق أمسك
الضحكات أعلى من أن تُسمع
و الهمس عديم الفائدة
هذا المساء
كم غريب سيطعمني جنونه
و كم غريبة سأبني لإبتسامتها
قصور تهوي حين تضحك
يثق الغجري بالريح
كما أثق بموتي
يثق الغجري بريحه كما لا أثق برؤاي
أحسد الغجري غجرية لا ينتظرها
لن أسرق اللامبالاة من عينيك
دهشتي, سيغسلها مطر خريفيّ, أو كل ما شربناه البارحة.
لن أشكر أحد, لن أصلي, ولن أرفع قرابين
سأنظر إليك ما طاب لك غزلي, سأنظر وأرى.
فيء السماء يمد بساطا على أرضنا اليوم
مباركة؟ أم تحدي؟ أم صدفة تتحايل على كفرنا.
أنظر إليك, فأرحل الى أيامي الأولى.
المسافة بين يديّ ويديك تعب لذيذ.
وهمي؟ أم ما تقولين يرسم إبتسامات لا تحصى ولا ترى؟
Our blood: neighbors
Our skin; one.
Our breathes, labors
Our dreams; none.
