Infertile Seasons

 

The infertile seasons no longer have clothes to receive the new spring, the cold has closed the doors of their hearts, their joints are groaning, what immortality does the insolent human eyes know. It is better for history to ask the sidewalks for goods that were thrown by the hail to the side of an old man.

The world is a hungry sun. All he is good at is lighting the fuse, so the sea will drown in tears. Yes, the torrent still carries that great meaning, although I became convinced that myth can live in sick homes like a modern vehicle.

No, you cannot imagine the strangeness of the souls that stumble on the road. The distance captures the place, and as you can see, this person has nothing but pale tales. I am not surprised by all that coldness in the faces of things. My organs split like grains of rice, they hide behind the wide smile of the night, they stretch like illusions in the fields, they are attractive and overflowing, they are dazzling.

In that wide space, which I do not forget, there is not left for man a boat that can accommodate children coming out of the Euphrates, their brown foreheads, on which the river has drawn dunes of fine sand, I remember them properly.

It is not difficult for a person to descend from the sky, and it is not difficult for him to stand like an old tree waiting for joy and death. The sounds of the night thicken the arteries of man, so shame does not flow into his blood. Here I see the shadow multiplying in the place, bloodying the brow of the sublime light, so the galaxy is flooded with the gnostic.

Weapons

 

Behold,  I live to see the new world, I am no longer a child. In the palms of its sunset, every shroud bleeds with weapons. There - in the dark - the cold gives its grandchildren lessons in igniting nature. There; all winds are pale. Weapons suffocate my memory, storm the place, distributing messages of eternal love to the hungry. There, pens don't want to write anything, because beauty has fled outside the galaxy, looking for new lovers. The world hides in an old bottle. Even the holidays, they no longer know the new air. There is only smoke here.

I am not surprised by all this great pain, for I have learned the sufficient reasons; Weapons make camels a vehicle, and they have no choice but to hit the sides of the road, causing the hearts to bleed. There; in these hearts; trees will not find shade, but they are plump and red as they should be. Yes, you know; the heart of the river is a city of ice, and a memory that ignites thunder and clamor in our depths.

This is how the streets shrank, floating in the sky of noise like patients trampled by feet. Children breed in wells in search of an old legend. At that time I was a child, and the past was a broad view that taught me to hide. My ears were heavy like a mountain, and you did not find any nectar in them.

Swaying Waves

For whom are the flowers picked? And for whom are the candles lit? The waves destroyed every butterfly that melts in its nostalgia for the charming sunset breezes. The roads are flimsy, they turn without turning back. My fingers and my calls are not enough to find my starting points.

My beginnings are pale, their winter clothes have been drained and my fingers evaporated; the woodcutters toppled it like twigs hiding among its leaves every civilization I don't tell its great secrets. Nature is adept at unleashing every possible story and every pigeon whispering in my ear tells me about that flood that stole the birds' nests, leaving only my dark skin, and a magic chariot towards being lost.

Though the frogs are pure, and though their croaks color my evening cheeks, I do not find my ears eager for their great singing.

I will fall into the well, because its paintings are devoid of fish and pearls. Yes, pearls are the message of every death and rape of the Gulf. He sleeps hungry on his golden berth where those swamps stretching like virgins in the middle of noon on my back, those hands with very long fingers, they pluck me like autumn leaves so affectionately.

Hurray, smile, o icy capitals. The night walks on two arms of asphalt, and I am those ancient stones in the womb of the earth, satiating its bushes with every bitter cough. My teeth are a painting of beauty, and my fallen lips in the oasis of longing are the story of a old man who passed through my village one day.

Come near, come near, o swaying waves, o utter chants, o body parts that I know, here I am stopping like death. My capitals are devoured by locusts, and my mouth melts every strange boat. Hurray, Hurray, smile, O freedom; for the noon has ended every bush that stands still on its branches and sings the swaying waves, so I go out in autumn like rough cracks on the hands of the peasants.

The New World

 The New World

The lily of the lake when it rises I see it, though I sleep on an old pillow. How much the arrivals told me about distant spaces, but without pain I forgot their stories and sat in the corner as a great acquaintance.

The years here are trembling, children have eaten their peel. There is no room left for the person to accommodate his smile. Those perching on my chest have made darkness a fruit of a breeze, but it is still dark.

Welcome, O happy Gulf, for the sunset is filled with every charming dance. Jerusalem yawns, protruding from its ribs the skulls of childhood stolen by the New World.

Silence expands in the breezes of my skin. The gulls babbling at a lake clipped their wings in the evening. There is no high sky, nor a beloved coast. I will give up the idea of immortality and a happy life. This world does not leave a shadow of joy when it talks about its beloved desires.

Yes, when the hill has forsaken its great glories, and I have forgotten the questions of my childhood, then you can imagine how narrow my desire is?

Wheat and flowers are great pioneers, who make of the paths of death forests that enchant the eyes. How is the way? And there are only birds that have been frozen for a long winter.

This is the new world, looking out the window without good introductions. His brown tales are scattered among the branches of generosity, like wings without a homeland or nostalgia. At the bartender there, a rustic smile awaits me, whose dark heart does not know love. Yes, the flowers have changed, and the water in the river has become too meager to accommodate the waiting of the toilers.

New Death

My eyes are filled with dust, and my ears are pierced by a sleeping civilization. I don't know how this air gets into my lungs? Floods are no longer enough to end this world. His body is like a motionless stick, and there is only a frantic crawling in the darkness. Yes, there must be a new death. Thus I cast out a ghost of peace. I whipped the back of the Galaxy with a squeaky sound.

Ants choke these valleys, folding like a table for the hungry, their bodies piled aloft with the cheap sand that fills the cracks of aging in the face of alien civilization. Yes, failure is the inheritance of this galaxy, lest it be said that man knows nothing of immortality, and lest I pretend that life stopped in the sowing season, I will bring out a scrawny cow that fills the earth with a cry, leaving no room for it. to allow them to leave.

This is how the word splits, like a star swimming in a river. The world is shrinking and its bones gobbling up the stench. And this civilization is nothing more than a dying city. Life has become harsh schedules, but the birds fill it with singing, and teach man the love that revives hearts. I do not deny the joy of the city, and I do not forget its bright colors on the glass of my lens, but what you see of tears is enough for a person to be silent for a while.

Pale Civilization

 

Winter carols drowning in the fog, leaving an unforgettable euphoria in the memory of the streets. Its cold corners are full of silence, so I freeze in my dream like an old forest tree. there the sound bends, fading into wide space. Not for the word but to fall in the mud. Miserable ships pierce my ears. Those flowers move away, vomit eternal pain, bequeathed by generations and dreams. The tales of civilization drown in the ocean. It was said that the sea water, including bracelets and dates, was devoured by flies in a captivating moment, and its stomach became warm springs. The heart of the world retires as a widow. There is no place for human dreams. No warmth and no anthem. The ears of wheat bare her legs, she bowed in shame, and there was nothing in her heads but heavy air. Yes, sunset has a thousand songs, of which the peasants know nothing. The years are trembling, the skin of which has been eaten by children, so there is no space left for man to accommodate his smile. No, it is very false to accuse the body of the sins of humanity, for love of the moon does not need the blood of nature. I can only mourn. And not for the precious civilization, but to be fed up with every yellow drop in the ocean. The sun has a radiance that makes the trees static poems that know nothing about eternity. This is how civilization lies, multiplying in veins left by bells, extending along an old street, snowed by the lack of walkers. There is a cool smile. It trembles like an ostrich whose head is multiplying under the ground. In her ears, thorns and the hungry grow. Blood fills the streams, devours the veins of the trees, and the dream vanishes like a emaciated cow. No, the farmer's heart knows no lie. The city coughs, vomits camels, makes guns and dark bodies out of children's toys. Women elongate, swell with sound. Civilization coughs, invents the history of tears. No, beauty is something else. Everything revolves mercilessly, even the flowers have turned pale, the sidewalks vomit the dead, the cells of her head rot, in her arms the devil explodes like a bomb - there and coldly - killing the sun.