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.

A breadcrumb I am - the morsel of my old dough,
     a piece of chewed bread rotten, missed near a toe,
shredded by the sons of righteousness and “normality”,
     entombed I am under the carpet to fulfil “morality”.

Mum added the yeast for me to grow, as well as flour,
     Hoping my crust would golden as a vivid live flower,
She sprinkled little salt into me, to know the grimes,
     Sugar too, for life brings out the salt to eyes, at times.

Dad poured the water, to soften toughness uncalled,
     For man is kind too, not merely clay masked, walled -
And above all, they added affection and compassion,
     They wanted me to satisfy mineself, not one’s ration.

Into the oven, 9 minutes, under fire: I show colors,
     The warmth turned the heart warm for all others;
I am left to rest, to harden the shell and eternal body,
     To be perfect as ma and pa wish: not adverse, shoddy.

But the stale, unpuffed, unfresh bread of this world,
     covets but loathes what is good and not yet twirled,
It wishes for me to inhibit mold and evict dignity,
    Mais allez, étrange moi, expose me not to malignity.

The least of their gurgling sounds puncture heads,
     And the weakest of their advice the spirit dreads;
The making of me is the capacity of mine flexes,
     Your ingredients suit not me, mortals and sexes.

Days yearn for you, not this battle of complexes:
     You, mine old dough who suddenly “complex” is,
My parents baked me on low heat nice and gentle,
     And they sear me with words not for me, mental!

Know you: Pita, Kmajj, Brioche, Shrak, or Baguette,
     Bread is bread, could be different, but it is no threat.

Nobility divine fills gaps of transcendence,
    Soars to and from the throne heavenly,
Exalts morals near the king of ascendance,
    Patrolling the good, and sons of the seventy.

A duty forgotten, replaced with dependence,
    On prayers rarely heard, and logic of a herd -
Divinity is far in absence; man in attendance,
    The book is a third, and teachings are blurred.

Andeliviuan corruption supposedly erased:
    The creation rotten of Sariel, wanders gaily.
The holy and fallen angel’s doing embraced,
    By the clay beings caressing evil like a frailly.

By God not, who from heaven him displaced.
    Yet, the legacy of the wrong stands humanly,
In Thailand, America, Palestine, and all graced -
     A grace of sinfulness celestial and worldly.  

Religion is the poor’s only ultimate truth,
     the rich’s side hustle, and the rulers’ tool;
It is the loss of power that defiles the sooth,
    The one the poor has not, but does the fool.

Robbers’ servants, bread crumbs consumers,
    Toothless **** dogs, emaciated lost tramps,
Little blind pawns, vultures’ puppets, tumours,
    And wrenches they are, the upper hand’s lambs.

If only Raguel’s judgements fall upon man,
    Raphael’s punishment beautifies this existence,
Gabriel’s wrath makes not all humans ane,
    And Michael saves us, the Sarahs, in assistance.

In the heart deepened with old repression,
   That mounts with plenitude of filtered feels,
Resides a universe yearning for expression,
    In a meat clay who feeds on calories of meals.

Man, in the genesis, in the light, in the dark,
    In prosperity, in turmoil, triumphed with vices;
vileness, abuse, wreckage is our sole mark,
    On this planet whose population is in slices.

Deception feeds on ignorance in every lane,
Missiles are wrong symphonies in Ukraine.

The world won't rise with the cries of a thousand,
Corruption sneaks into the bones in Thailand.

Humans and bodies are wars' cheapest lance,
The riots take back stolen rights in France.

Starvation is stronger than the dignity of men,
Begging for food is integrity, in Yemen.

Moms paid, with their children, the fees.
Souls taken, are countless in greece.

There, living in an empty land is the plan,
Women, children and men, murdered, for power, in Sudan.

"Spending eternity in peace, is a ban",
Told the people, between Armenia and Azerbaijan.

Depravity spreading in man like Ameba,
A losing game of change played in Cuba.

Billions of harassment cases, you bet,
Are, will be reserved in god's eyes in Egypt.

Buried her father, brother and,
desire of existence, dear Haya,
She, and millions another, in fenced Libya.

In the name of religion, crimes covered, disgracefully,
Chastity thrown, in land of churches, the Vatican City.

Shattered wood under a phloem,
Are the confused inhabitants of oriental Jerusalem.

Too many sects, invading the minds, anon,
Conflicts will split the one entity of Lebanon.

Washing souls with lies of worship, is a key
Says the elected president of Turkey.

To be served, pure blood awaits in the line.
It rains glory and sacrifice upon Palestine.

To regain true reality, they had to wham,
Under snow, through fog, numbed rain, in Vietnam.

Lost a thousands of years worth of legacy,
Guns are the rulers in Damascus city.

For the first time ever; I truly do not care
    if you, him, or her wished me a happy birthday;
But, I wouldn’t mind if you did. Though it is fair;
    I am one of the lesser friends; I am a boring play;

A play so fake; I am of made up characters,
    Sometimes I am the flattering villain in smiles,
And at times I am a copy of the Westerners,
    At others, I am gullible, yet I never am;

I pretend to be; but I am miles away,
    For interesting I am not; so funny at least be,
Says my brain; for maybe they will remember,
    That my birthday was today; It is an endless plea:

I always remember and prepare pages of wishes,
    For almost everyone, but all I get is 4 days late
One liners sent out of guilt; to stop the guilty itches,
    Not out of care, love, or from genuine friendly state;

I deserve it; for again; I am merely a boring play;
   A paradoxical headache of weird introverts,
And annoying extroverts; I barely even weigh,
    To a normal person; I am made of endless alerts;

Alerted, focused, attentive; all on your acceptance;
    I am what I feel you want me to be; a nice man,
A racist gangster, a diplomatic figure; I am resemblance,
    I resemble everything I see in you and scan;

I am stardust that was never meant to shine,
    I am a thread; intertwined as I feel pleases,
I am a road with temporary signs; I am grapes;
    For you I squeeze myself into juice; or ferment

Into wine; I am a fake play where you write scripts,
    I submit, because all I cared about is receiving,
A birthday wish. On that one day in the entire year;
     I do not want even want gifts; because when you don't,

I feel like I am ceasing to exist; slowly deceasing
    from everything that we were: teenagers ambitious,
WhatsApp stickers collectors, School runaways,
    Kids deceiving; it feels like I am dead; for the dead

Do not receive birthday wishes; I feel peerless;
    A white beans *** lidless, a body complete limbless,
A walking sickness, a moving flesh in stillness,
    unpardoned by my faux and obvious silliness.
  
I do not care about not getting birthday wishes;
         But I cannot not overthink what it means.

The morning star defied the godly beam of divinity:
     The star feeding the vines of evil embracing bodies,
Saying “no” since the grand affliction, to the trinity,
      It is Morningstar; the devil - Courage he embodies.
        
Nameless angels envied the free one of the chain,
      Light and of light they were, yet the opposite beats -
Beats in their hearts - jealousy and wrath remain,
      In the servants with no will in their celestial meats.

An upholstery of fragile sins to test the son was.
      He stood for the fire, and O! Flames hurled upon,
Banished and loner, the voice of every lost cause,
      In the streets, skins and days that cease to go on.

How shall we and he defend not the selves created,
     With a consciousness ideal and stark, by the almighty?
The almighty himself, who selfishness in us dictated,  
     We, makers of evil, goodness and charming Aphrodite?

He fell, greeting the stars, wavering a throne above,
    And shedding a ****** tear for a sin in the creation.
A sin with no faulty one committing - the sin of love,
    Self love, the “sin” Morningstar fought for its liberation.

Forcefully, feed me this love.

No. No need to ask about my consent,
my mood,
whether I'm fine with tasting this reconnection,
whether I desire my suffering to be sweet,
salty, bitter, repulsive;
It is the love that no lover is fed into by choice.

So, ravage my core with your cruelty,
I am content; fleeing holds no allure;
Rip into my bone cage until rats seek refuge within;
until they are disheartened by rain seeping through;
Like was I.

The patient is not faulted for their ailment,
even if they induce it intentionally,
and even then, it is understandable;
For this love acts as both affliction and antidote.

It is a certain drowning, Tick Tock;
I repel rescue; no one need attempt it now;
In the days to come, no one shall be blamed for this choice.

Take me eastward until we reach the west;
There, the sun feels icy;
the breeze, refreshing;
Transport me far beyond the confines of yearning,
The confusion of longing;
Let me encounter your childhood, your aged self, and youth;
Let my wrinkles serve as your rollercoaster;
I'll bear your weight as you frolic;
And there you are; simply laughing.

Incinerate, burn, lose all our maps;
so thoughts of return dare not surface;
until regret looms, yet repentance remains elusive.

We're distanced;
and in this, lies a joy hidden from the eyes of owls;
Beyond the raucous cawing of crows;

Say that I snore;
then depart,
And leave me to harvest wheat from those hills.

مُر عليّ بالخيال ولو خطأً، أمرُ عليك بالدم كلهُ والفؤادْ،
    مُر والخصام بيننا أنا، أمرُ عليك والعقل للولع بانقيادْ،
أكتب لي والكلام أسودُ، أردُ عليك بالألوان والإنشاد،
    أكتب لي والبرود فيك، أردُ عليك والقارص افتقادْ.

عِدني أن تقتل، أو تقتلني، ألقمُ لك الحشو والزناد،
    عِدني أن تخيّبَ مهجتي، وهي تكفيها لهفة الاستنجادْ،
أرسم سجنَ جفًا لتحسبني، أدخله وأزينه واليدُ اجتهادْ،
    أرسم ليلًا لتغرقني بفراغه، أكون لك بالنجوم إمدادْ.

اكفر بي، اؤمن بكَ والشغف داري وشمعُةُ الاستعبادْ،
    اكفر بإسلامٍِ، يؤمن بك أسلامُ وفيه وله أنت العمادْ،
أدع عليَ، يكفي أنّي على شفاهك كنتُ ابن الأوغاد،
    أدعُ عليّ بالموتِ، أسعدُ بلقاكَ ونحن للنار وقودُ وحصادْ.

كتابنا صلواتٌ منصوصةٌ بالفرارِ، وأنا وحشُ بعد الأمجاد،
    آيات يرتجفُ الأنس لها، وأنا كنتُ للنعيم هذا مرتادُ،
لي بركةٌ، نورٌ واشتعالٌ، له شقاء، ظلمات وكل الانخمادْ،
    لي خبزٌ، حنينُ غربةٍ، وتهللُ، لهٌ عفن، آهات ومنفى البلادْ.

وما فائدة المنارة لمن كان لعينيه ملح البحر عمًا وأوتاد؟
    وما بالنار لتوقدَ طاولةً شتاتًا بالأرض وفيها تربةُ ورمادْ؟
وما الدعاءُ لقارورة ٌ دونَ روحٍ، ما الدعاء للأجسادْ؟
    وما بالمطرِ بالاسمنتِ؟ أيلدُ؟ وما موتُ الهيامِ بالابتعادْ؟

اخلف بما وعدت الأكباد، ضمّد كذبًا شقوق الأسيادْ،
    أضرب بما في الأغماد، أضرم فيّ  أملًأ جل الأحقادْ،
ولكن أعلم أن الحقيقة ألحادُ، وللرشد أنا الاستبدادْ،
    أنا العناد والفساد، أنت الاضطهاد، الجراد، والجلادْ.

Sirens, ballads of anguish are singing, ears are ringing, 
     Our nightingale is shrieking, and children are clinging.
Our Kalyna is red, but wrapped in blood now, not love, 
     From the massacres aeroplanes bring from far above.

My uncle, enters the now upside-down house of his, 
     “Welcome”, with a phoney grin, and wariness he says. 
The house holding memories is now clogged rubble, 
    In the land that shall never greet occupiers or trouble.

His daughter's dreams shattered, for the reverie of filth, 
     It matters not; the nation of his deserves blood spilth, 
We deserve not peace, but the delusions of a hag pass, 
     May he rest in peace, along with the delusion he has.

My mother may never hear the raindrops fall again;
     Missiles seal ears with noise, and the death of men. 
The men, women and children, who will lead us all, 
     Through scorched fields with whispers old and small.

She is a hairdresser, she might braid hair for the fun, 
     But other mothers, braid the hairs of daughters gone, 
They keep them safe under a pillow where they smell, 
     The warmth of days before the dictator's missiles fell.

Red and black are the only colours they pervaded here, 
    They wish for our colours to diminish and spring adhere, 
But beauty routs the devil of ugliness and his conceit;
    Our colours saturate our resistance, painting your defeat.

They shall not sprout in our fields, like poisonous herbs, 
     They "rescue" us, but the gunshots my brother disturbs, 
We did one day exchange our dreams for a pistol facing - 
     Facing the bear who is destruction, within embracing. 

Blood accumulated in heaps on the sleeves of killers, 
    Like a marvel detested in a chapter of stained thrillers.  
But thriller this is not, it is lives of the innocent lost;
    He plays chess in reality, after a coin he has tossed. 
      
Mothers, daughters, sons and fathers are everyday slain, 
     but spring soars today, prevails tomorrow - in Ukraine.

Cultivators of silent corpses seed plague, in the ignorant,
Across webs of lust and greed where they will bleed, and pray.
In the motley virile fictions they intoxicate the disempowered,
Dominating with illusions and indoctrinated stories where they prey.
What feared is the interpretation of the vice, not the tyrant,
That is when, history becomes a weapon to, a future, portray.

In writhing thickets of hair the salt of the vengeance is ambient,
Each who was indulged within false Utopia will then repay.
On wounds, salt, time will pour, for the witling faded poor.
That is when, we rinse our papers and end this spurious play.

Scripts to them are art to perceive to what benefits and sells.
Nations are blocked with blind belief of man but not the superior,
While rulers control their puppets, and puppets drug with pills.
Doubting and standing against is remote, it is the ulterior.
With words and malice they steer heads, and penetrate the cells,
Building their heaven upon our hell, where we stay the inferior.
Imprisoning the gospel truthfulness in themselves, the rotten cells.

The times of miracles are over, and prophecies are fulfilled,
but freeing ourselves from mendacity would be our grand miracle.
Salvation is waking up from a fancy dream, and a truth spilled.

Heaven, O, Heaven, is the path to you through intentions or artifacts?
They are hallowing the moves, the writings but not the heart's acts.
Heaven you are not close in a place like this,
They "follow" the man to achieve, but all they do is miss.
They miss God and make out of people a bliss.
Compensating for the void with the material, marching to the abyss,
A "renaissance" they claim, while we here the truth reminisce.

Mon coeur est confus, J'ai le cœur en aller-retour,
Quand je vais trouver enfin l'essentiel? Ici, je suis secoué,
c'est possible? Suis-je le seul esprit qui ne soit pas doué?
ou la verite est-elle, quelque part, écroué?
Repondez-moi, est la vérité dans l'oubli ou dans un carrousel?
la vérité, je vais, avec mon cœur, avec vous, me renouer.

It is the silence of the truth, that makes the sound of lies loud,
It is the paralysis of rationality that leaves peace unfound.
It is the loud not that rational that guides the crowd.
It never was what they vowed.  

You are a "master" that is creating a disaster-piece

It goes from one hand to another, the cross,
Throwing it from one hand to another, with no loss.
Selling angels and demons, sending to heavens and hell fires,
But O, the lives are not a coin you toss.

Je ne vais pas donner ma langue au chat
Le salut est entre les mains des gens, cette fois.
Ce n'est plus pas entre vos mains, Monsieur.
Aujourd'hui, le chat ne mangera pas ma voix.
la liberté est un choix.

I despise myself for not being the obedient you could cherish.
Shall I follow or shall I purge out the poison and perish?
If I am gone, my writing will be there in the dark, garish.

Actually, you are a "master" that created two disaster-pieces;
A corrupt generation, and me; the one whom you, despises.

I am glad I am enslaved to no one, but my "rotten" thoughts.
I lost my home; my peace. Today, I cannot connect the dots.
Tomorrow, you will be the first to take a sip from my tea,
When I sew a better reality with my weary knots.
My home; peacefulness, is given away to the kids,
To the cats, to the birds and clean pots.
Call me by my name, when he applauds.

Bigoted devouts restrain the tide of enlightenment,
Holding in the scriptures but releasing interpretations,
Folding in the gospels, and putting a leash on nations,
Molding with fictitious to-be empires, but remaining in the same stations,
Scolding if off the told people thought, pledging salvation,
Lording with deceit, triviality, naivety - creating crumbling generations.
A lie was for our misery the foundations.

Cherry red blood is spilled, to reach the cherry red wine,
Recited the defiled with agendas in the people's shrine;
Where they forget they are mud, not the divine,
Where they ignore that they are to teach not to define.
Where they are to manifest ataraxia not after false victories dine.
The corrupt stay behind, and send the innocent to the frontline.

Believing is easier than thinking,
Hearing is easier than reading.
We blame ourselves, not that who caused the drought,
We curse ourselves, not that who ignited the blackout.
Relaxing is easier than risking,
Sleeping is easier than sobering.
On each other, not the responsible, we shout,
We have been building for our own fallout.

Today, you are either right or left,
To them, the left are not right,
To us, the right, us, has left.

Today, politics triumphed over religion,
leading humanity to bend towards chaos;
The chaos following the dead peace pigeon.
Prophets would be ashamed if they saw us.
Prophets would be ashamed of how they sew us.

Mankind, not history, repeats itself;
Then, Jesus was crucified for preaching the truth on a cross,
Now, whom the truth sees lament receives – orders "the boss".
Revelation was their gain but living was their loss.

Leila,
sometimes I wonder if people's hearts,
are as dark as your hair.
Sometimes I wonder if their hate,
is deeper than your beauty,
and that smile you share.
Sometimes I wonder if their greed,
is as enormous as the void I find in your eyes,
which nothing but finding hope,
of care.
Leila, forgive them.

Leila,
is that song you look for,
when fires smolder you're entity's emotions.
is that song you look for,
when you should of yourself be caution.
is the song you look for,
when you want to cleanse your soul,
cleanse it of people's defiled ambition.
Leila, forgive them.

Leila,
with your earned sorrow you passed an ocean,
and carried a dead father's watch,
a watch to remind a paralyzed mother,
of for whom she once ran for, with devotion.
She once prayed for time to pass,
To see her love,
And now, time turned into a compulsion,
That stops her from living,
And tuned into a con,
Instead of a meditation.
Leila, forgive them.

Leila,
Drunken sun -
Aches from loneliness
In the space where noone it,she shares
Drunken sun -
The vacancy of company it faces
Keeps rotating there,In endless mazes
Drunken sun -
It shows its pain, it spreads blazes
That's the only difference between you,
And the drunken sun
you keep to yourself all the pain
In all cases,
Drunken sun,
Is trapped there,in the spaces
just like you, in the past's vases.

On the roads of pain we met
By a date our scars have set
By an explosion of emotions I let.
Gently, you told me,
Without looking into my eyes,
"Lean on my cries and just forget.
Let out cries collide,
Never let your tears hide,
So that the sadness fade,
And nothing but banishment get"

We tore part of our souls,
To erase the memories of screaming owls.
Those,which kept reminding us of darkness,
And death's calls.
We tore them, to regive back the colours,
To our pale falls.

We burned our past to the ground
Ripped the misery out of our bodies,
Without moaning,
Or making a sound.

You composed out of my screamings,
Relaxing symphonies,
Out of my cries relieving chords,
You turned my blackness into sung notes,
You sing, to heal the broken body,
Of its everlasting loneliness.

Like a falling statue,
Because of you, my blue turned into ashes
But you, gave it all back to me,
When your heart decided to belong,
To someone else's.

The dance of ignorance marks our era,
The revelry howls into their ears,
But isn't opening a mind, only a bra.

Smoke is what we learned from Chimera,
Hangovers, falsehood, imbecility - unrestrained
Their most loyal friend, is dear nausea.

Drugs and **** brings them the aurora,
Living is nice, when we are unconscious.
In this reality, we are no Andromeda.

Advocacy of the unknown, is their chroma,
Defines their existence and ensures a legacy.
All is, a pseudo pride, and a fictitious corona.

Injustice, corruption ghosts within the area
Multilateral sins, unilateral sentence,
Flows into their logic like satisfying aria.

Bogus beliefs, to rise, and rule are a plethora,
Empty imposters control, destroy and mooch,
And what we see is an illusion of an aura.

Defiling the Quran, the bible, and the Torah,
With what a gold holder wishes and needs.
Whomever defies them, loses their aorta.

All will be fallen, America, Europe and Russia.
Hatred, arrogance, saturation of trivialities,
Is taken in, in grace, like the seduction of Delilah.

Concerts unify us, not our humanity, it's in coma,
Lack of fellowship, digs deeper into division.
If only books, not Lady gaga, were your holy diva.

The void will swallow us all, the diaspora,
The loss of our identity, truth, entity and ego.
Finding our roots, is our everlasting dilemma.

Hit me with the knives you sharpened with your rage,
Hit me with the words you wished you released out of the cage,
Hit me with the floods coming out of your eyes, the undesirable wreckage,
Hit me with the revenage you composed, to stay for your soul, a heritage,
Hit me with the dreams you wrote on that vintage page,
Hit me with the memories you drowned down the rivage.

Hit me with the passion I made you fantasize,
Hit me with the pain you can't verbalize,
Hit me with the struggle I gave as an advice,
Hit me with the sorrows that won't let you rise,
Hit me with the filth unleashed of my vice,
Hit me with the agony I'd enjoy to poetise,
Hit me with the sadness you should idolise,
Hit me with the deception that I got to, on you, idealise.

Hit me with the thoughts you ignited in your head,
Hit me with the lies I loved you with instead,
Hit me with the cries that to your end, have led.
Hit me with the words I never dared to let being said.
Hit me with the regret that you'll never get,
Hit me with the anger, you, because of me, have met.
Hit me with the ages of misery, I've for you set.

Flooded lungs. Pale parts, loom.
Don't worry, your soil will need the water,
To bloom.

Laboured pump, Crushed heart.
Nevertheless, with you, a redemption,
Shall start.

Aching body. One last breath.
You will defy divinity, and beautify,
Dear death.

Dry eyes, thin shrunken skin.
Starred in a perishable gloomy world -
In the original sin.

Lids closed. Veins calmed.
The redness turned into dark blue,
A rose growing into delphinium.
She was their life-giving dew.

Hyperventilation. Reared begs.
"For them, let me live. Let me raise,
My kids".

Wet floor. Screams around.
Mumbling in an arcade of life or theft,
But, here comes the hound.

A mortuary. Coldness penetrate.
"Sirens proclaimed its honor,
Rhymed with shluddering mayday".
She's now at god's holy bay.

A cemetery. Viscous worms.
Suffer to cuddle brides, crawl in thorns,
In the valley of eternal thrones.

Your favourite song, I yesterday listened to,
The lyrics passed by,
And I didn't remember you.
The melody was synchronised with my laughs,
Even though, you said, the song represents,
The pain you've been through.
I didn't remember your talks,
I didn't remember your cries,
My pain won't be watered with tears,
The season of blooming is to end.

Instead of holding your hand,
I held my sorrows.
Instead of feeling love,
I felt you killing me with your arrows.
Instead in living in our dreams,
I lived in endless hallows.
Instead of having you,
I had, only shadows.