I do miss
Your golden dunes,

But don’t take it amiss
If today
I ask you to turn
On the other side

So that I can see
Your hot, burning
Soul
I crave to kiss
With my fountain pen.

© LazharBouazzi, February 2, 2017

Oh my kind grandpa
I've drawn your eyes on the tall
branches of the trees


پدربزرگ مهربانم
من روی درخت هایی که شاخه هاشان بلند بود
چشم های شما را نقاشی کشیدم

I used to drench with colors like the joyful spring.
As if it lent the essence of most awaited love from two vague souls.
They don't believe in true love at the end;
Though the innocent part of nature endues those colors forever.
I opened my burning eyes,
balmy smell of mango burgeons touched my soul.
I can remember how I met summer.
When tepid aroma wafted in my lungs.
And greeted my rusty pen.
Then I met autumn.
I learned to forget.
I often heared the rustling of my reminiscences.
I became a deciduous tree, shed those memories like dry leaves.
One day whiteness spread across my rainbow surface.
I got stagnant and rigid.
I grew frosty inside,
enslaved by the heaviness like the clever fog condenses the earth.
And I acquainted with winter.
I wonder was it a secluded heart, that possessed these divine four layers?
Or, a decieved one, where deep anguish made a void once?

Throbbing hands
Rusty pens,
Sleepy eyes
Lashes die!

The beginning, the end,
Wearing the same.
Divine nature, how obedient,
So tame!

Bare room
Counting claps,
Measuring inner howl.
Taking thousand naps.

Open sky
Full of stars,
Hues among the clouds
Remind of scars!

Stubborn winter
Gives birth cotton snow,
Long verses;
Lost and aimless.
Seeking for a master to vow.

I know a boat called ‘life’
Where people come and go.
Few are genuine,
Later you will know.

My poems are aging
Like my shrinking skin
So feeble, so naïve
Tell me-
Will they be pardoned for an innocent sin?

I'm cold
And shaky
And fearful
Of the future.

I just want you
To stay.
I just want you
Here.

But the fire can't keep me warm
Tonight
Because I'm lost in thought
Lost in place
Trying to find
Myself
Or anything resembling that.

But whatever
Whoever
I may be
I am still lost.

And you would rather
Inhale ash
Than speak to me
In any sense deeper
Than "I love you,"

But I lose myself
In the shadows
In the wherever
Whoever

And fear burns through my skin
Boils my bones
And my marrow,
Leaving me
Less
Leaving me somewhat
Gone.

But I'm disgusted
And angry
And lost.
But that's about it.