HEARTS

 

HEARTS

As evening approached our old window, It told me that hearts were fingers of light, descending in the evening like an old peasant with eyes of lapis lazuli.

It told me that the heart has two long braids, and it goes out at dawn to his grandfather's precious orchard, which is very similar to the picturesque gardens of Kashmir. There are pure faces that remind me of my grandparents. Where hearts are white and bright like pearls. I wish you had seen them covered in silk. I hope you saw the gentle rivers; they were as tender as the hearts of the Basrans.

That quiet evening advised me to leave behind foggy hearts, for a pure heart is a free bird that does not live in this dark world. He spoke softly, and I listened. He told me that the heart is the brother of the sun. It was strange and amazing news. So where are the hearts of our dear ancestors? Where are their bright lights?

THE SAND CITY

 

THE SAND CITY  

 

I am from there, from the city of sand, a traveler in my heart is the sound of water. I stumble in the seas of my life, only resting at every shore that sings beautiful songs. I am just a memory that came to us from afar, telling us the story of absence. The story of a city that still lives in dusty leaves, and still looks strangely in the mirror. It always told me that aerosol is a strange thing that gives us the illusion of reality, but when we go to sleep, we see it clearly, and we face it face to face, and it tells us its cold stories.

Don't you see this city with its silver hands, holding our breath tight, creating a long line of rocks that dream of faded roads? And this time, how pale and free it is, flies away without return, it laughs mockingly at our bulging eyes.   I am not very delusional, but I feel blind, so you find me wandering around that city looking for every unique flower that only the blind can see, and every time I find one, it says to me: Oh, Sand Man; Sometimes to see clearly, you have to be blind. I hear her voice and see her with my heart because I am a blind man.

SOMETHING OF DEATH

 

Something of Death

Oh days, oh birds, wait, wait, for this is my heart still stumbling over the slopes, its feet made of snow, and its eyes the remains of a copper voice searching for something of death.

I searched for a long time everywhere my fingers could reach, I searched for my gray color, and I also searched for my hidden veins, but I did not find an image of myself.  Maybe I'm tainted to the point of blindness. I must find my purity in order to see the image of the person I know, who longs for a free death. I am really sorry now, because I was not able to do that, because I know that life has a smile that cannot be seen except through that beloved death.

I stand here every day like a bird of distant islands. I stand as a stranger listening to that voice; The voice of my heart. Yes, I am standing here waiting for my pure soul to return; I wait for my life every day in the hope that I will die.

MELTING

 

Melting

I will write about love strongly, as I am a universal abbreviation for a love whose place only new lovers know. They are looking for me on the paths. It is strange how can they see me when I am a planet of ice melted by the blind winds? Since then, I have been disappearing in a river of tears.

 All I'm good at is that I descend every day from the sparkling springs into a foggy valley that knows no clarity. My letters are unreadable, and my years are unimaginable. They are just a memory from a time when the lights went out.

Everything here turns like a lost wheel, and I am that strange tree, standing there with the crown of longing on my head, looking towards the road, hoping for your arrival, even if it is a cloud. I cry every day because of all this longing, I cry because I am lost in your vast world. I'm crying so hard because I'm so happy by you.