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Eslam Dabank Sep 23
A scene I witness; a tank stands tall and proud,
    And stones above me are a dome with a purpose vowed,
Striking as desperation infused in resilience bullets;
    Covering the sun, the clouds and the house of puppets.

Accelerating, they are, as they get closer to the enemy,
    Sharpened, as rubbed with the winds of true identity;
The stones cold and rigid, that turn warm and alive,
    On a glimpse of soldiers wishing, in falsehood, to thrive.

Hands are grips of pouches, arms leaned back behind -
    And stones rumble in excitement for a destiny to unwind.
In the skins of a will that centuries could not erase,
    to hit the filth, the mud catapult a stone shall raise.

Reality is a mortar, and the unity of stones is a pestle,
    Grinding the green oppressors’ hideout; a fragile vessel,
Brewing glory with petrified history in hand and mind -
    In our fettered souls, freedom is shown to the free blind.

A triangle of love our life is: a stone, a hand and a sling,
    And O, is it a love for anyone to forbid? No, it is to sing;
To be sung aloud; romanticising the ugliness of brutality,
    The love that will grow, in the womb of unjust triviality.

If they wish to throw us in hell for our love and this,
    We hereby will turn hell into the land of pleasure and bliss;
Fashioning a reality where the fires are patting gently,
    And Gods are watching the anomaly from thrones intently.

Stones imbue the sweat of us; forming glazed shields,
    And the wounds’ blood absorbed crazes paths in fields,
Where I see a soldier dazzled by the weariness of them,
    The weakness of their stem, and the strength of our gem.

Now, I am dying under the dome of swift stones up there,
    And in hand, a stone dipped in my blood is left for my heir.
Eslam Dabank Sep 3
Through the evergreen spikes and idle sun rays,
     We slipped into the shelter of a glade’s keeper.
Our chests, that morn, merged with soil in haze,
     letting lungs inhale the dust, earthly mud deeper.

We coquetted the sunbeams until they faded away,
     Greeted the old night with cuddles fake and stark,
Stole the water from the vines, and turned ash-gray,
     And towards us, lured prisms, from a lost lark.

We heard the rivers, the winds, and rains above,
     We carried rotten grass, pale tree stories and awe;
We re-lived days of damnation, miracles and love.
      Being rigid, eye-closed, and silent was the law.

Dim violet shattered light warms our skin below;
     Where I and she, between the lilies grew our days,
Between the Larkspur submitted to our eternal foe:
     Time: the long-lasting eons of gloom and craze.

In the forest’s lap, my lips are in a meek embrace,
    With her; the unrivaled goddess of fostered innocence,
Demeter, the fertile goddess of our home space,
    And O, here comes the angel of late repentance.

A divine party of lust it was, underground, unseen,
     Where the beauty of immortal euphoria lodged in,
And godly licks and temptations filled the in between.
     We tricked the forest and land, and portrayed our sin.

Under the evergreen spikes and idly languorous sun rays,
     Two humming mouths presented one last song for life,
A song of farewell, sung on a white bed of sorrowful essays,
     Chanted above rendered up necks and played by a knife.
And O, godly licks revive the remnant of us that decays.
Eslam Dabank Sep 2
Sleep, little one with white wind casters,  
      Fold your wings, calm your impulses as thus,
Float in your serenity, under the pilasters,
      Leave all reality behind; evil and the muss.

Exhausted pigeon with indelible commotion,
      You shall never sob again in this brutal space,
You shall never again feel a gloomy emotion,
      All will be gone but heavenly restful grace.

On your wing, I see dew forming a home,  
      For the petite dust and surface it covers,
And a star is calling it, tickling its dome,
      They gyrate together, as newly-wed lovers.

Moonlight pats on the your velvet wings,
      Comforting a troubled despondent soul,
With its golden rays and strings it sings,
      an assuring lullaby; illuminating a dark hole.

If only dew of abnormal enormity saved -
      Rescued you from filthy descendant creatures.
If only it was your haven from the depraved,
      But mercy is aberrant; even in the preachers.

Little drained pigeon escaped from atrocity,
      Cherry red blood glazes its delicate feathers,
And ash on white canvases unmasks animosity,
      With them they tried to restrain amity; tethers.

In the future of mine, I see an afternoon,
       Where the sky, the ocean collide in despair,
And twirl in a round dance, creating a festoon,
       For the Earth to wear, on its weedy green hair.

A crucifixion it is, for the earth and the moon.
       And in awe, I sat on dusty sagged car to stare,
as the blues clogged time in eternal croon,
       And cracked the order, and humanity’s prayer.

Dear little pigeon, you shall never witness this,
       This; the production of corruption conceived,
And this blade petting your neck, is my final bliss,
        As promised: heavenly restful grace is received.
Eslam Dabank Aug 28
In the heart of the city of peace, a sinful act occurs:  
         Blue bruises of love beautify my neck, just as hers;
Colouring this grey canvas of gloom with divine thuds,
         It is then, when they rush into us: the filthy bloods.

Stain me with sins, and paint in white over me vigorously,
          Let the gods who created us, design our hell rigorously,
Let knees rumble, red eyes tumble, and virtues stumble,
          Stumble into a chaotic loss of heads: a loss humble.
Eslam Dabank Jul 31
I melted moon-white pearls into a gleam,
         sewed a meadow’s wild-flowers in a dream,
And created a woman, with blood divine,
        A woman strong, more intoxicating than wine.

Through dew, the spark of life arrowed in,
        Giving birth to the wildwood odored skin.
Delphinium vivid petals of a spring late,
        Were the eyelids carrying my despair’s weight.

Out of desperation, I draw lust with scripts,
        With flagrant red roses; colouring her lips,
The droopy distorted lips, whose kiss mourns,
        An existence where it is with me, not thornes.

With the gloom of the straying fool; Eslam,
        I wrought the hair of her drenched in psalm,
Enchanting with dark godly melodies of her,
        Braiding light with sorrows that, there, were.

Rob, I did, the breeze from the voided air,
        To embroider something, while reciting a prayer,
And dizzily, I fabricated a soul for the mud,
        And O! ******* lively rumbled; the once-were bud.

She inhaled, in awe, life and my old despair,
        And with the first breath, an end she did declare,
It was as we both breathed for the first time -
        We were two words in a poem, ready to rhyme.

Her light, reflected on my broken pieces,
        The rayes, shaped a tree of wicked caprices,
Where my fantasies grew and bigger got,
        And controlling the other self, I could not.

However, she is my little beautiful creation,
         And this reality is my hunger’s innovation.
The reality we all share was not real at all,
        Yet what fake is, makes my reality whole.

Leave me, until I crawl.
Eslam is my name.
Eslam Dabank Jul 31
Gently, let’s embroider our unfermented love,
             In the deep eternal fabric of time, as thus.
The thread is in the needle in the sky above,
             And the cloth shall cover the sorrows of us.

Let us intertwine our souls divinely as one;
             Embracing the hearts’ and senses’ ecstasies,
Creating warmth that defies the great sun,
             leaving the gods in awe, in confused lethargies.

Subdue your mind and heart to unfamiliar rest,
             Free your emotions from all futile endeavor,
Let my hand pass to wake the slumbering breast,
             Let me sever agony from your past, forever.

Let us submit to our truth and us, you and I,
             To the evergreen field of ripe happiness,
Where the future sings an exhilarating lullaby,
             Composing a symphony for your highness.

And, as night shades our loving souls and falls,
             As the black olive and fig trees are darkening,
And the nightingale, announcing the end, calls
            With the black bird we will, our misery, sing.
Eslam Dabank Jul 31
Earth, when the time comes, embrace me,
           Let me rest in your moist, humble grave,
Between the worms and insects let me be,
           In the mud, where shall live no dull slave.

Make my body a refuge where you will,
           For the fragile creatures living in fear,
There, for peace, let them my bones drill,
           And for safe serenity may they adhere.

In my miry grave, ease I did not find,
           For a soldier’s steps shuddered my tomb -
The undesired steps of a soldier slave blind,
           Bringing with its presence detested gloom.

I shall never sleep seeing invisible lashes,
          Severing babies from their mothers’ breast,
And men whipping to milk fond gashes -
          Brutal wolves demolishing their own nest.

I shall never sleep sensing torments condense,
          Bloodhounds howl for more of their prey,
And oppressed shriek for a purge to commence,
          By a restless god, whose subjects went astray.

The ace of diamonds rules with unseen greed,
          Throwing the cards in the hands’ useless chain.
Diverged, we have, by the corruption we feed,
          Yet the choir of heaven sings for just in vain.

In my tight darkness, I hear grabbing by arms,
          Women and girls losing their innocence there,
For their kindness, body and inherited charms,
          And no voice is raised to save a strand of hair.

In my unmerciful soil, I hear pulses slowing,
          Freezing in humanity’s unbearable coldness,
An 8-billion family in division leisurely growing -
          In a wounded globe, with no divine nurse.

In my excruciating loneliness, I hear you all -
         The unheard restless toiling man in a flame,
The kid drawing a better reality on the wall,
         And all I can, is lie in my sorrows in shame.

A dress of chagrin I complete down under,
          The textures combine in shared anguish,
With  remorseful memories hit as thunder,
          Leaving even my drilled bones to languish.

If only dolorous joined me in my space,
          I would not sigh, but smile for your grace.
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