Gypsies


The Gypsy Girl

I like the quiet lakes and their reviving breeze, where the water’s eyes are always sleepy. You can't imagine his red cheek in the winter nights. I remember when my mother had made a nice hat for him. My mother is so expert in the seasonal souls and she told me that the autumn is a gypsy girl. I didn't see autumn, but I am sure that my mother saw her because she described her face precisely. She told me that Autumn is flying between the trees’ branches as a small bird and leaving her veil weaving airily in our souls. Sometimes I feel that Autumn is a fairy and you may see her stormy tale swimming deeply in our dreams’ water.    







A Gypsy Tent

I am not a hippie, but I seriously had thought to live in the forest without cooker or air-conditioner, just wood for the fire, and if you don’t agree, I will leave the fire for you. I will drink the river water with the birds and eat the greens with the deer. I will sleep under a tent without walls or doors. I will leave all your walls and all my closed doors for you. I will take a gypsy tent because I wish to dream at the night widely and chant at morning loudly.













A Gypsy Wagon

My grandfather had a beautiful horse with a heart filled with compassion and kindness. I didn't see her, but they said that she was legendarily clever and brave. My family might have possessed a wagon. I don't know and I didn’t ask about this, but I think if we had one, it will be closed as the desert’s soul. I am an Arab man and you know there is nothing here but desert, so I decided to bring a gypsy wagon to my home to learn my children the freedom.

COLD GODBYE
I will stay here alone, behind the silence and behind the curtain. Yes, I will stay alone without you because I knew what pain is like? And what is the only love? And I knew how deadly are the moments of coldness? This coldness kills me slowly, steals my soul and reminds me of lonely nights. It is the bitter coldness that stole my smile. I am not saying goodbye to you, I said goodbye to the smile a long time ago.






WARM GODBYE
I will stumble a lot among your goals and paths that you left inside me. And I will sit alone at sunset remembering everything beautiful. It is not a song but a moment of warmth that I cannot hide. Rather, I shyly repeat the words of longing, and with all my tenderness I touch your warm soul. I am not saying goodbye to you, I am saying goodbye to my smile.








HOT GODBYE
How burning is this pain, and this separation. It spreads me in the air like the sound of the wind, so I touch your cheeks with every touch, and I dive into your lips with all cruelty. Then I come back with a pile of tears. It is not my eyes that bid you farewell, but my heart, and these tears are a story written by the days. It is not my voice, and it is not my eyes, but your love. I do not say goodbye to you, for I melt and vanish with the burning pain of this farewell.

He is the old friend who plays with children and sits in front of passersby with all gentleness. He is the shepherd of the field and a great cattle player. He came down to us with warmth full of love to teach the stony hearts the meaning of loyalty. Even the deserts and forests know how pure a dog can be, so when hands touch his pure soul, it becomes softer and cleaner. He carries love on his back, greetings in his eyes and a very expressive tail. He is a forgotten and persecuted painting, but those who knew him wrote on their pages the most beautiful stories in which he was the hero and the pure friend.

This is me, a prose poem, I flow between the features of time with complete freedom, and penetrate the body of dates like a magic ray. I strike the face of darkness, and shatter the glass of its imaginary eyes. And there on the hills of its chest I raise the banner of unforgettable love.

Yes, this is me, a prose poem; My breath is hot like Indian pepper, from above its hat a burning hymn flies. In my heart is a destructive storm, but my body is elegant and furnished, created by a wild stream whose water never stops.

Yes, this is me, a prose poem, my sandy dress shatters with complete freedom, and my magic is a flowing narrative, but you cannot hold me, my laughter is a distinguishing mark for the morning and a mad confession to a field full of butterflies. When I visit you, I visit you with all kindness, and when I melt in your cup, I become your enchanting voice and the legend that inhabits the non-place and walks in timelessness. Above my sleepy hands are the sun’s waterfalls, and from my eyes fairy tales begin, so the seasons and days gather around me so that I disappear into their depths with complete spontaneity.

I am very delicate; because I am a prose poem; I drown in a world of fog. How do you want to see me when I am that transparent shadow that tells everything? This is me, a prose poem, you feel strongly my warm touch but you will not see my elegant fingers.

……

The writing and art by Anwer Ghani

BY THE RIVER BANK
You know that butterflies are the sound of the morning, and when they land on the city windows, they knock on the doors of dreams until the girls' faces shine on a winter morning, as if a forgotten journey had returned home before sunrise. Then I still walk with joy by the river bank, inhaling the very clear air that tells me its stories and interesting adventures.
I see the soft light of his heart shining green, by its bank, where everything sings. How happy I am with those unforgettable moments; they were colorful and soft like the face of the moon. Oh, you, river, how you promised me to show me the touches of soft dreams and to tell me about us every pearl sleeping in the shade and every colorful smile by your quiet bank.