You can’t shape me anymore.
Victim of the 21st century,
A slave to greed.
You can't shape me anymore.
I am the
uncontrolled element,
The suddent twist of a muscle.
I am the random act,
Killing your routine.
Plot my ******, avenge yourself.
Never have I, never have I longed to live.

Release the lion into the wild.

And the night bus was late and it took a different route.
It passed the buildings, barrios and fears of my childhood. The banks, neatly groomed. The fancy buildings where most of the people I once knew live. There the sexless book club where I used to wonder about the knight B4.
I know there are walkways connecting the blocks where thousands of people are now asleep or lovingly kissing or exchanging ****** favours for small change in the under ground cellar boxes. Or people locked up in prison for no reason at all. Or people up at night wishing upon stars that they cannot reach.
The bus takes another turn.
There are garbage among the dillapidated parking lots.
I see my neighbourhood.  I can smell my neighbourhood. The despair, the hunger.
It scares me to write about it.
Perhaps you dwell somewhere here, but it is not likely.
I can't find you here.
We have so little time
To be born in the riot ,
And it is the riot,
What happens in the riot,
That decides what matters.

Do you know what a knife is?
The one your mum uses to cut onions...
Onions.
The best excuse for battered mothers.
Anyway,
Bring that knife,
Hold it as if you're holding a god.
Bring it slowly to your neck,
Slowly, slowly...
Let the sharp tip cut the blossoming vein.
Let it bleed.
Close your eyes.
Do it now, little one. The world needs not another innocent victim.

The affairs of humans I find amusing
and I keep a dragon entwined about
my thumb to do my bidding
let the blood fall like rain and
burn the bodies as kindling
ashes
let their glare and the fogs of war
abolish the very sun.
listen for the sound of hunger in the silence
of my approach
cower in the shade of shades
let the fiery blaze of your hopes be eclipsed
at the sight of the sightless void that is me
for only then will I halt
only then will I lift my blood-wet mouth
and then shall I howell the futility-
of my nothingness.
for then I will see where I stand
in the necropolis Golgatha
and alone shall I perish.
amids carnage and oblivion
For I shunn the vulgarity of the maimed earth
I may not have company of myself for the
ocean no longer bears reflection
As for Fire, its blaze drives me beneath
And the wind?! it speaks unintelligible babble

And I write.
I write about everything I did and regret,
I write about everything I lost and missed,
I write about a darkness that's lurking in my head.
And I write.
I write about stars, space and bliss,
I write about the nights I spent sleepless,
I write about the internal extraterrestrial intelligence.
And I write.
I write about stolen kisses and awkward hugs,
I write about sharing a bed and drugs,
I write about drunken *** and whisky jugs.
And I write.
I write about literature and poetry,
I write about Sexton making out with Bukowski,
I write about Akhmatova painting Dostoevesky.
And I write.
I write about music and lovely symphonies,
I write about Tchaikovsky waltzing with Vivaldi,
I write about a world where we dance as we please.
And I write.
I write about childhood lost not forgotten,
I write about battered women and abused children,
I write about you and them. I write me every now and then.
And I write.

Her own desire led her astray,
a smile from him was enough to ignite the fire.
The serpent wrapped itself around her neck. She couldn't run away,
She thought they were the enemy, she found her society so dire.

"Why linger here? Why turn another page?" She though to herself.
She walked to where she first died,
and there she commited suicide.

و لا شي.

the question remains a question
A paradox, an enigma.
Despair embodied with human curves
That arouses my deepest and most concealed fears
Like the heightened sensualities of a pilgrim
Or the hunger of a pagan god.
Once again, where is Mecca? or Jerusalem?
Perhaps Eden is in a box?
Or within the ****** of a battered woman
How about Atlantis?
Is it like me? Between 4 walls?
After all, we are left to confess and write
Our darkest secrets, our most inhumane crimes in a wall
In blood or in phlegm, or perhaps *****,
Is just a matter of preferences.
Sartre is on the phone,
Looking for someone who’s never home
Whether he knows or not we’ll never know
But my finger touches his dance partner.
Dance away like numbers
Minus the precision or the count
Learning tango simply costs too much
and like Sartre, I'm poor, or maybe less
So he went on dancing like that,
With no measure nor count
Free like a *******, like me
Nervous yet spontaneous.
Another silence,
But unlike before it’s even more silent
Making it even more unspeakable, undesirable
And now it demands the impossible;
To be called by its name, by its urgency!
But the words, those little empty words
Withers away like leaves or skin kissed by fire
So we are left away with no device
To break the silence or to speak out its name
The trigger, the unmoving dance partner
Went down to its cold alloyed knees;
Proposing marriage with my finger
She knows the answer,
A way to speak the unspeakable name
Loud and clear, with a bang
That everyone will surely hear.
Or do we already know that?

A symphony of modality,
Of fiction and reality.

With the rhythm of a syllogism
Of a logical decision.

A shallow sky, where rats fly
Singing lies to passersby
Amidst the cries and goodbyes
The night sighs, as glistening scythes
Steal souls and take lives

But nothing dies, nothing vanishes
in this cryptic lullaby

I'll start walking, I don't care what you say.
I'll start talking, I don't care to who you pray.

I'm done standing here watching you fly like I always do.
I'm not stranded here, it's time for something new.


So I leave you in this cryptic lullaby.

Well technically say non-existence could and did exist for an instant, I would say it couldn't really [since] it is non-existence itself, but if it did exist then within it non-existence wouldn't exist so it would seem that existence would simply come into existence out of the non-existence of non-existence

Death of the self  
starts with the death of the will
Lay rest to your ambitions
with every breath that you take,
Escape with your comfort,
escape with your rest, escape with the wind,
escape with the living dead,
escape like the rest of your family did.
Sleep among the numb
while decades have passed,
Sleep through the earthquakes,
the fissures and cracks.
Unknown to your perception
confined to your chains.
The lid can't be opened.
The lid can't be opened.
My life, reduced to death.
I breathe in smoke, I walk through fog,
I breathe out smoke,
my eyes are clouded.
The lid can't be opened
I am dead. I am dead.
A voice awakens in my head,
"Are you dead?"
do I know it?
Well, whoever-whatever- it is, I know how to reach them.

He watched and controlled,
A century later,
He got bored.
So he called his Capitalist friend,
"Make the poor more poor till they become extinct, and the rich more rich." Said the brother.
and the capitalist replied,
"We need them, the ***** poor ones."
"Why?" Asked the big brother
"Because I am slavery dressed in a modern outfit."

A sanctimonious expression.
A blank mind harvests life's sins
And the desire becomes the master.

A wicked expression.
An overloaded mind vomits life's lessons
And the grey hair awaits death in silence.

In the heat of the moment I realized,
Something within me died.
Would you visit the shrine?
Where the sane side of me lay buried?

Your beauty is to me,
nothing but an old, golden coffin,
Buried in the sea.
Your mind is to me,
A phoenix that had been imprisoned by fire,
and it can never gain liberty.
You are to me,
Nothing but an old memory,
That I threw away.
In the darkest corner of my mind, to the right, there's a small locked box.
You belong there
A memory that never tried,
To reach my tongue.
And in the dreamless night,
A whisper broke through my innocent mind,
Killing the memory
And by its death, I remembered
What I shall never forget

Once upon a time, a little girl met god.
she wanted him to be her f riend,
but he told her to leave immediately, "it's dark and cold and dear I am old for you, leave."
And she ran.
Years later, god saw the little girl
but she changed, wrinkles and dark circles.
he whispered in her ear, "let's be friends"
she laughed and laughed and laughed
and screamed,
"It's dark and cold and you know nothing. Die already."

A green crescent shines over the white grass
Plastic bags, teddy bears, and cheap make up
Scattered around the muddy land
You drink my violet blood from your crystal wine glass
Reminding me of the Christ, and the immortal cup
You touch my hand
And your thoughts escape to my dysfunctional brain
Planting thoughts that are darker than the sun
And they grow and grow,
You water them with your agonised memories
"You are beautiful", I whisper to your ear
And you smirk, yet you didn't  hear
My voice is drowned by your narcissistic bickerings...
And I stare at the green crescent
I bring the gun to my head,
And slowly, ever so slowly,  pull the trigger
And **** you.

merciless nightmares I created,
In my own realm of hatred
A seemingly endless darkness i invaded
But I came out, torn and jaded.
I had a firm grip on the bones and flesh of a dead man,
His corpse alienated me, made me inhuman,
Like ether, colourless, lifeless. Hence, from myself I ran.
I found myself in a serene place,
I called it paradise.
Provided me with hot water, washing away the sleepless cold nights.
There are colds parts in me,
And the darkness is always there,
In moments of loneliness, in moments of despair.
I am alone yet the downfall of my hopes accompanies me.
I have one desire,
I strive to kindle a fire using my heap of ashes,
My heap of shattered desires.

The Romans were right.
Be it death, be it life,
One can bear anything.
When the waves go rough,
Hold on to nothing.

Layered with guilt and destruction,
You wrestle with the past.
"You can start anew"; a lie,
There's no such thing as an empty canvas.



You live in ruins,
You build on ruins,
People surrounding you like relics.
You cannot create a starting point.
Embrace the past,
and never abandon any memory,
Be it beautiful, be it cruel.

I tried to make you understand that my body is not mine, my soul isn't mine, I am not mine...
I belong to the people who are confused and ****** up like me
I belong to those who envy a **** woman's mouth
For having an ****** dance with a piece of bread
I am not mine, I repeat
If you are yours then you are the enemy that I never want to be

Shine on, you crazy diamonds, even when the night covers you.

Braid your hair and hug your mother's photograph tight,
Flashbacks, bitter-sweet memories, old friends, lovers and comrades.
The battlefield awaits you, needs you, grieves you,
now is your final chance to fight.

Unmoving restless agony of thought,
Mechanical, incarcerated by hungry fears,
Imprisoned by desire, by 'is' and 'ought',
I wander in a labyrinth of old ideas,
And when a breath of perfume comes my way,
Or love unnoticed for wakens in my eye,
I crush it with the urge to seize the day
And poison heaven with a greedy lie.
One time there is to live and that is now,
Though yesterday is all that I can hold,
And looking to tomorrow with my 'How?'
The love I know is always dead and cold.
Yet love endures and I must surely end -
Myself the foe, and death the loyal friend.

Humans tend to destroy everything that is pure and heavenly.
I reside in Lebanon, a paradise.
But since people abhor each other religously,
the city has fallen and it cannot rise.
So I watch them **** each other's lives rapidly,
and I smile to myself because it's like watching mice.
Mice trying to steal a rotten piece of cheese,
but little do they know, that it's a trap,
made by the old ******* cat!
Once the mice reach the cheese,
the cat will devour them.
"Such a sad story." I say aloud.
And god answers,
"A sad story indeed."

I open the gates and I let them in
they crawl like cockroaches under my innocent skin
they yell at me to give in
but I resist
and
yet
I surrender
i try my best not to exist
i pretend that i'm a bench
where they like to sit
i cry and die and then mourn myself
i watch them laugh and love and then **** themselves

Let the rain descend and sacralize the blood-stained earth
Let it veil the martyr's body and wash his mudded face
Let it be destructive, let it collapse the skyscrapers as we rebirth
Let the lighting streak the sky, let the thunder play its music as the winds dance with grace
Dance with me, collide your body with mine, let us become one and let us fight the overgrowing darkness
This is the last fight, the only chance to revive Winter and to create Spring

Such a sad summer night
on the abandoned hill
black defeated white
no stories left to tell
my child cried day and night
"Mother, i'm not feeling well"
"you'll be fine tonight"
i whispered as she fell
in my arms
and died.

Such sad a winter night
on the abandoned hill
no black, no white
no one left to ****
i still mourn my child
and now I'm not feeling well
but I am not to be held
for everyone's dead
and alone I shall die.

Well,
people never ask about what I love,
what I hate,
It seems that "I" have to fade
it seems that "I" is not important
because "I" is Palestinian.

I'm not allowed to work,
I'm not allowed to get proper education,
I'm not allowed to talk,
I'm not allowed to speak of liberation.

They call me a refugee,
but, dear, I am a slave.

I'm not a terrorist
I'm not blinded by religion
I'm not blinded by traditions
I'm only human
I have no liberty
because of my nationality.

You, who call our for human rights,
Am I not human?
Am I not a victim of insignificant fights?

Well,
All I know is that I'm alive,
I exist.

So keep your prejudiced selves away from me,
and let me be,
let me be free.

I am only a human
a human
I have a beating heart
I love art
I have ambitions
and dreams
stop shattering me
because of a nationality.

I've seen it there
I've seen it here
I've seen it vaguely and robust

I've turned away
I've witnessed it not
It I've rejected, and I've sought

A story mundane
and fantastic too
Is it the same for me and you?

I've asked these questions
and I've answered them
This I've done time and again

I've seen misery as it burned
In my ribcage
And then a flower bloomed

I've known why
But known not how
I've lived back then and in the now

I've believed lies
I've believed what's true
Which is it now? I wish I knew!

A world woven
Seam by seam
Half reality and half a dream

Screamed from high
And whispered from low
As we sway to and fro

Master of a fate
Not mine
In a world cruel and kind

I've played chess long enough
To know that one step may cut my head off
And that I'll rise again like a phoenix


And I'll die.

The probability of being fully accepted by people is: 0.001/100000000000000.
**Oh honey, don't cry.

There were times when my mother and I barely had food to eat.
Locked in a room, waiting for a sunshine. Victims of abuse.
There were times when I slept hungry.
Emotionally and physically hungry.
Those times are long gone,
some scars cannot be undone.
Ugly bruises mark you, mark you as the prey.
When in reality,
You are the hunter.

The opening act is immorality.
Observe.
Intervals divide not naturally
but with intent. To lack, in lacking,
I express- without, of course.
Provisions lessen, starve to death,
caressing apathy.
Run.
Run away from conception, direction.
Consume nothing.

Act two is speculation.
Time expands naturally.
The godhead splinters
vomiting seedlings of Betlahm.
They breed, inhabit the womb
of the earth. Servants die
monarchs are imagined.
The crown, christened
with black opals and painite.

Louder! Louder!
Our crescendo nears!
The springs of fertility
ovulate nourishment. Absorb
these eggs and conceive
not Theseus, but Artemis
Scarcity ceases to be,
and oceans of wealth
are now begging for disposal.

You ask me to revolt, fight, and demand freedom.
It makes me laugh because I am free yet I am in chains.

Don't you find it strange? How your world could shift on its axis and everything you trusted could invert itself in what seemed like no time at all?
                      
A girl who grew up in a desert which was located in a forgotten land had discovered a secret lake after walking for more than 21 hours! She never told anyone where she was going. She only spoke of the lake.
The lake was crystal clear and alluring that the girl felt like drowning herself in it, to just let the water cleanse her soul. But she couldn't even dip her finger! Her finger would barely touch the surface. She tried with her hands... Nothing. Her legs... Nothing. It was as if the lake was made of glass!
So she decided to walk on water. Her feet touched the surface and she took slender steps. Her heart was beating really fast. She closed her eyes and kept walking till' she found herself on the other side of the lake. Relief flowed over her as she opened her eyes and saw that she was still alive. It was as if she walked on glass.
But how?
"No one have the ability to walk on water! There must be something wrong with the lake." She thought to herself.
She pounded down the lake again, trying to see if the glassy surface would break... Nothing.
She tried dancing and she spun like a ballerina... But her dancing efforts went in vain.
So she lay on the surface. A dormant girl.
Her black hair was crowning her small angelic face, her dress was as white and transparent as the glassy surface itself, her legs were bare, and her hands were placed above her head.
"Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe this isn't a lake afterall." She said aloud.
She closed her eyes and started imagining how it would feel like to be dead. She felt that it would be similar to lake... No movement or life whatsoever...
Abruptly, the glassy surface cracked. The girl's eyes flashed opened and she jumped, but little did she know that her movement cause the whole surface to crack, to vanish...
The girl no longer felt like standing on something that is fixed... She felt the water pulling her down and down until she drowned.

i wander through the forest of forsaken dreams,
under the dim light of the red stars.
And i'm shocked by what I see,
bodies,
blood,
scars.

they're gone. They're truly gone.

I hold myself together and shed my soul,
into the lake of silent spirits.
And the water reflects my face,
and I'm shocked by what i see,
hatred,
anger,
ugliness.

I sing again in praise of love unknown,
In ancient form, composed of stolen phrase.
This timeless moment everything is shown,
And I am forgotten in the uncounted ways
Narcissistic I's you and me and they;
Desire, embodied to be laid aside
One last of time to make the passion play:
One love to fill the emptiness inside
Whence all the horror of the endless 'me',
Lost, loveless, fearful, cruel, un-free:
That not-thing knot that I refuse to be
And am... Am not, and only dying see.
This dying borning life is always new,
And I am love and life, and I am you.

You crawl on my skin like a cockroach...
Why do I desire you?
Shouldn't I be disgusted?

I don't want to be a writer.
I don't want to starve,
I don't want to go mad -but maybe I'm already there-,
I don't want to commit suicide,
I don't want to be homeless,
I don't want to be alone.
I don't want to be a writer.
What do writers gain?
Judgments, madness, aching heart and pain?
Tell me, what do they gain?
I don't want to be a writer.
I want to be nothing.
But what is life without literature?
What is life?
*Nothing

"There is a light that never goes out."
Plays over and over again in my head,
And I turn around,
Morrissey's autobiography smirks as it rests on my bed.
And I know that, tomorrow morning, everything will pass, will burn.
For I have to be the light for my own despair.

Two thousands stabs burning
Blood oozing
Red grass and a night lit by eyeballs
Frogs sit on strands of hair
And eat fingernails
instead of flies
And my soft whispers **** the quietness of the earth
As it unleashes the beasts
"Come to me, brothers and sisters."

You vanished.
Your replacement,
It doesn't fool me.

A bitter wind awakens by the symphony of the prisoners.
a land much sought-after, but never fought over,
dances beneath the moon and hides behind the sun.
Nature succumbs to a foreign melody,
Once it waltzed melancholy؛‎ ‎now it dances alone, seductively.
And there you see,
A dim light in the distance,
That is my mind, swaying gently in the breeze.

I Am Very Refugee
We protest and communicate
We back off and disingenuously disjoint
“You have potential.”
He says as he smokes a joint.
“Where has that revolutionary spirit gone today?” It is victim to my apprehensions
I must suppress them.
I must suppress my apprehensions
And the electrifying feeling of anger surging up from my stomach; but never out
My anger is a fiery, vivified ball of red and black electricity surging,
Heaving,
Every bone and nerve ending coming close, to stumbling,
Burning out in the intoxicated hope of it all, but never touching
And the trippy glow, the burning fireworks climaxing perpetually never ends,
it is subdued without the chemical element to release my apprehensions, the doubting gone.
The wheels must turn; the machine keeps turning
Does it matter? NO!

The policeman looks at me and says: ‘’a ******* refugee. You don’t get to be angry at your host.”
It hit me.
I see activists
Typing , gathering, yelling,
Barely smiling,
Privileged

While excluding me, of course.

I wanted to scream:
Please consider me another fixture of your time here
I am the battle every day. I die every day.
I am searching for words to describe how you, citizens of the land, reject me
Much like the letters I will receive from the journals I send this to,
I want the marching, the marching,
walking in everyday and touching my feet in my black secondhand fake leather shoes
I want to march in and step in and feel the constraint of my blue ID
Telling me that this land isn’t mine
“How will you change your life, Islam?”
I ask  myself how am I spending my time?
rushing
fleeting
drinking
contemplating suicide
paranoid,

I am tired, scared, weak, flawed, human, a desperate refugee intertwined with the poor hopes and regulations of humanity, and I am dying,
You are dying!
I will die soon,
Go ahead! Smoke your oxycodone pills,
you are dead, you are dead, you are dead! You are all dead!
My father killed himself because of me and so I will blame the system.
You are dead, from the moment you confine yourself to the poor reality that there are just too many of us and that nothing will change!
So yes I will leave the protest.
I will sit within your dreary cubicles walls stained with the fabrics that I horrifically glance at, sneaking, beating the freedom,
Embracing constraints of social and financial necessity.

I
run, run, run, run,
screaming madly about our dissatisfaction and our satisfaction?

my anger is dulled;
nullified intricacy, blazing, twisting and winding its' way down my heart,
to the frayed edges of my perceptions, drowsing off into the last fixtures of the solidified realm
in which  I find myself; and eventually.

Can I  say something?

I am a refugee. I am so refugee, refugee, refugee, refugee.
The vast expanse of illusory getaways are the only thing for me.
There's nothing else but to escape this vast and dreary landscape of perpetual minutia, to escape my insanity.
Time stretches on and on, I am very tired.
Palestine still occupied.
Yes I’m screaming, screaming, till there is no me, and my voice will not reach you

I will never reach to you. I will never touch you, hold you, love you, I will never have the opportunity to feel the electric race of mindless sensation make right the ticking

A white friend asked me on twitter
“What’s  it like to be a Palestinian refugee in Lebanon?”
It means that you cannot do anything but carry on pathetically, with a drastic furthering of lust and selfishness, into your devotion. Psychopathy is more common than you'd think.

I want more to talk to you but there is reality, and the sea is not green
It is red.

The beach is cold and the sand sifts beneath your wait, it is tan.

Dear,
We are all comrades when it is our rights for which we ask. We are all comrades when it is basic rights for which we ask.

I don’t know if my words make sense because honestly they shouldn’t.

I am manic. I am loose. I am dangerous. I am high.
And I am terrified.

لا أفهم الأسرار، لا أفهمها في كون كتمانها غليظًا على النفس، وحين نحاول ان نخرجها من قبرها يبدو هشةً ومليئةً بالسُخرية.
كالثورة التي نجاهد لتحقيقها وفي لحظة ارتطامها بالواقع تبدو فارغة... لندرك لاحقاً بأنها لم و لن تتحق. ما جدوى المٌضي بعد أن التمسنا ولو جرعة بسيطة الأحلام؟ لا شيء.

الشيء الوحيد الذي ألحظ فيه تقدّمي بالعُمر هو ذاك السر الذي يتسع و يتسع ليضم العديد من الأسرار
و أنا أريد أن احولها إلى اعترافات:
أعترف بأنني أعود الى الحياة بعد كل محاولة انتحار لأنني أُهزم، لا أستطيع تحقيق وطن البياض الذي اُريد،
لم اتمكن من التحكم بهذا القلب المُمتلئ بالخيالات الضارّة،
اعود الى الحياة لأن أمي هي المكان الوحيد الذي يخدعُني بكُل لُطف، يجعلني عظيمة مع كُل الخسارات المُتعاقبة،
لازال يُمكنني أن أصنع قليلاً من الدهشة معها.
لا طاقة لي في المُضي ولا في الرجوعِ ،
تتقلّص الحيوات أمامي
تبتلعُ كُل شيء : ضِحكتُهم الصفراء، أصدقائي المجازيين، تبتلِعُني
لأصبح حائط ثابت في البقعة نفسها.


إعتراف آخر:
أسمع صوتك يكرر:

و هذه المقبرة هُنا -قلبكِ- لن تُخرج موتاها
و هذا الطريق -ذهنُكِ- لن يحل عليهِ السلام .
و إعتراف ثالث:
أخبرت أمي بأن عليها أن لا تهتز أمامي، وأن تكذب دائما، أن تقول بأنها بخير.
وأن تجيبني بأنها لا تشعُر بالوجعٍ أبداً
كُلما سألتهُا عن حالها
أخبرتها بأن تشعُر بالسلام بعد هذا الكذب وبأنني بكل قوة لدي سأصدق بأننا بخير...



إعتراف رابع:
أنت ميتُ في قبرك يا أبي وجميعنا بكامل طواعية الحياة أحياء.


وإعتراف أخير:

أعترف، لقد كنت أنتظرُك وأنتظر أيضًا في ذات الحين، أن تطويك المسافةُ عني، كما طوتني -طوع إرادتك- عنك،
بفضلك أصبحت على خطٍ موازي، لا أثور لا أصرخ ولا أتحوّل لحجر حتى لأركد، غيابك يلتهم بنائي الطويل، أردت أن أثبت لنفسي شيئًا، أن تتوقف أجزائي عن الهرب مني وأن يكف ذاك الشعور، الشعور القاتل بأنني لستُ ملكي و لست معي، أخبرتك بأنني أستطيع حمل كتفي و نفسي، دون أن أنظر -ولو في حين ضعف- إلى الوجود المُرمد بعدك، لكنني أقع مَرارًا، أتمزّق في رؤيتك تمضي.
وعدك باسق، يلتف حولي ويهمس بالبقاء، بالخلود الذي لن تطاله يداي ولا رغبتي، وكيف تهرب نقطه صغيرة كأنا، صغيرة عبثية لا تجرؤ أن تكون تفصيلة، من رجل كُل الوجود مقبل إليهِ؟ كيف أشرحُ لك شغفي وعجزي، طراوتُك التي تبتلع جفاف الأيام، وانت لم ترَ حربها ولا مرها، ولم ينقطع عنك طريقٌ فيها، كنت دائمًا كل الطرق، تنتقي خطوات حضرت لها و تمضي بها، خطواتُ لم أكن من ضمنها أنا يوماً.
كيف يشرح الحُب لشخص لم يعرف الكُره أبدًا؟ كيف تروى دهشة البدايات لشخص لم يعرف أي نهاية؟ وقد مضى من عنده زمن السعادات الصغيرة، والحُزن القلِق قد ولّى وإن لم يهطل قط.