MY LOVE, I TRUST YOU

My love, I trust you, because you are something full of truth and clear as the sun. My love, I trust you as I trust my eyes and my hands. Be my eyes with which I see your blue eyes, and be my hands with which I caress your rosy lips.

My pure and clear love, you are a river, you are a moon, and you are a soft nighttime story. My love, how I trust you, I trust your words, I trust your looks, I trust your whispers and your gestures.

My beautiful love, how wonderful you are! How delicate, and how soft you are. And how much I trust you. My love, I trust you, so do you trust me?

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.

MEETING AT ABSENCE

 

I will wander the corners of the wheat in the wee hours of dawn, and then warm my boat and my glowing islands and the shirt of the brown horizon for a joyful tomorrow.  I will give you a song you have never heard before. I carry it on my shoulder with the leftover bamboo.

When I met you in your absence far away, and you sat me down on that white hill, I was so amazed that I sailed strangely at your whisper. You are a cup blessed with wisdom. You looked a lot like the pink turtle whose shell the children of my village ate.

You told me about the houses that the ancients built in their alleys. You told me that my eyes are no longer shining.

Come near, come near, I am those falling meteors in the courtyards of paradise.  Come closer, come closer, hear my voice.

 How I wish I could write my name in the absence early because the day has become scary.

Wild love

 

 

I am a salty memory, on whose brown wood a stork has nested. I know no sail or coast but this wild love

Oh, wild love, how you burst into the corners of my dreams and closed worlds. You drag me into unbridled passion like a wild traveler lost among the bamboo trees.

It is a wild love that grows here and there. And I'm a wild shadow that can't dream, I just smile. My soul melts in its tales, stands there with this terrible feeling; touching the skin of the water. It is irresistibly soft and charming.

Let me sail to infinity. And I disappear into you happily in a wave that says it all. I just want a moment between its raging waves that surround me with all the sparkling drops that sit on the table of my eyelids, messing with the capitals of my thinking, the seagulls that can guide me to nothing.

          This is how my dream sings. So it becomes a strangely trembling bed. I'm not good at pretending, but songs of joy and euphoria that never leave the grass wet stir this love.

          O beloved impulses, where did you get all this purity from? And all this strange existence? The heart flooded my shadow with its gentle pain, and this body of mine became a follower of a captivating longing. When I look at your smiling face, overwhelmed with pride, I remember the ancient stories of that sea.

Babylonian man

 

 

I loved the sun because it reminds me of your warm soul. And I loved the evening because it reminds me of your wet whispers. I love the brown color, because it reminds me of your immortal hands.   And subconsciously I feel proud, when I see swarms of arrivals at your door asking for some nectar, and you are the owner of the great secret.

  It is amazing how much we have talked about the fading of time and space, and here you are kneading them with your fingers, so your board is infinity. You look down on us - O Babylonian - from the balconies of your walls that shine with copper, and in your hands a cup of Iraqi honey tea is like the eyes of an angel frolicking in the wilderness with the antelopes of Enkidu.   Yes, I know. You want something wonderful, because you are the wise one who knows things and knows the secrets. Your hands have conquered old age and death. Yeah, I know, you look at us and smile, you (He who saw).

EYES

 

Since  he saw her eyes, he has been sitting with the dreams of the lily and whispering with the love of the moon. There was no sun, only wandering butterflies and flowers.    One day he returned to her eyes, telling her of a bright face that he cannot forget.

Oh, distant eyes, send me a boat, and then I will be on the shore, waving my hands to great love. Come, open the last lily that the sleepy wind has fallen in love with. There it stands  in the midst of a violet pond, in the midst of a dreamy calm where water brushes the hair of light.

I wish you could see those eyes, to tell you that the pond is a lush oasis, and that it contains colorful souls and rainbows. To tell you that there is a lot of love left by the Babylonians before they traveled towards the sun.

 O sparkling eyes, O you who came down to us from the mountains of light, O you who sit on the hill with captivating hymns: Behold the tales of mermaids and hair fairies. What an endless charm! Your eyes and their stories.

MASKS

 

My mother  told me to climb the mountain, and when I reached the halfway point, I found a beautiful man in a hut with ugly masks in his hands. I told him why are you here? And what are these masks? He said: I was expelled from your city by ugliness, and these masks I send to every beautiful person there, so that they wear them, so they do not expel him from it as they did with me.

SWEET BOAT

I am not a legendary traveler, but I am a passenger who was taken by the wind, relentlessly and without tears, to a shining coast. The trees there are dancing and the years are colorful, what a splendor of summer!

Our boat is greeted by rosy hands and sleepy voices. The morning has made her lips honey and sweet fruit. So this boat became pink and sweet. We are not butterflies as you think, but we are full of light, and all I'm good at then is singing huge chants.

All I remember is that I put my bag, my schedule, and my bright smile on those unforgettable, joyful coasts. And how can I forget with all that pleasure? Believe me, if I had the choice, I would choose this boat again. It's gratitude and celebration. 

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.