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i am stuck in a world where the days repeat,
as the calendar looks back at me in deceit.
and even the sands of time look the same,
when the hands on the clock constantly change.

it felt like just yesterday when it was january,
when we made our hopes and wishes merrily.
blissfully naive on what was to come;
dreams, plans and lives having come undone.

alas, i am one of the fortunate ones,
allowed to continue with life since it's begun.
but in moments like this i feel really small,
confronted by life within these four walls.

i try my best to fill the silence,
while the world outside rings with sirens.
the pressure to be productive calls out in this commotion,
vacuum expanding till i'm near implosion.

and i feel guilty for feeling that way,
for there are people fighting through their days.
but i know their battles aren't mine to fight,
and till then i will focus on mine,
from within these four walls,
until there is light.
Regarding coronacation.
Today I am running on empty
nothing inside to fuel my rising
from this morass.

Does this wet lowland into which I sink
come from me
or the invading viral horror?

Alone I cannot raise myself up
I need a power far greater than me
to invade heavy me
with light.
Aus 1d
and tomorrow we can work
to be more
like the limits of a sunset

each day we start anew
to be more than the day before

not always seen below the clouds
but always trying
every day
to light up the world
with colors it has never seen
This Distant Light
by Walid Khazindar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Bitterly cold,
winter clings to the naked trees.

If only you would free
the bright sparrows
from your fingertips
and release a smile―that shy, tentative smile―
from the imprisoned anguish I see.

Sing! Can we not sing
as if we were warm, hand-in-hand,
sheltered by shade from a sweltering sun?

Can you not always remain this way,
stoking the fire: more beautiful than expected, in reverie?

Darkness increases and we must remain vigilant
since this distant light is our sole consolation ...
this imperiled flame, which from the beginning
has constantly flickered,
in danger of going out.

Come to me, closer and closer.
I don't want to be able to tell my hand from yours.
And let's stay awake, lest the snow smother us.

Walid Khazindar was born in Gaza City. He is considered to be one of the very best Palestinian poets; his poetry has been said to be "characterized by metaphoric originality and a novel thematic approach unprecedented in Arabic poetry." He was awarded the first Palestine Prize for Poetry in 1997. Keywords/Tags: Arabic, translation, Arab, Palestine, Palestinian, Gaza, distant, light, flame, fire, autumn, winter, trees, birds, sparrows, fingertips, smile, sing, shade, sun, fire, darkness, hand, hands, snow
Ayesha 1d
Like an unborn moon,
You're always there. Even when
we can't see You shine.

But then, even if we could, would not our vulnerable beings burn to cinders at the sight of Your eternal beauty?
LRF 1d
At the moment when
the last rays
to the faint glimmer of stars
and the time we have had
looks to be setting
on a far away horizon,
a finger of light
slips through long shadows
cast by tree trunks
and sparkles in the mica particles
of blazing red dust;
a trail to follow
a possible promise of a reclaimed day
that creeps into the undergrowth
and vanishes
with the pink sky.
May 2020

For a man who holds more promise than a red dust path.
Wyatt 1d
It just dawned on me,
I’m just like the moon
always retreating
once the light arrives.
The moon always follows the dark.
Sleepless night! those who are sleeping tight
tell me how do you sleep without thinking and sleep so light
don't you have any thought?
3:00 AM Thoughts
Oblivious. To think that I was sentient, made me realize that I was, indeed nescient—to the void where it fills me; feeds me to my singularity.

A hole in my heart where I can taste all the madness fuming inside me—deep in my drowsy feeling, like I was nearly touching the ocean's loneliness: in the middle where the abyss lies.

Troubled mind I should say—I tried to understand but it led me to my consciousness; a stream where it's just a river that flows down, leading me to the void—whether it be in my mind or what I see in my eyes; that only my vision can handle—a peculiar feeling.

Find me in my stories. Where escaping will be of no problem—where I will narrate which I only can see. Where the darkness has gone to light; where the light has gone to darkness.

Both only my vision can see—which put me in neutral. Whether I choose or not, the Light will find me.

Find me in my stories.
I wrote this while listening to Black Star by Radiohead. It kinda helped.
What a strange things?
Light shines through the crack of things are broken.
What a strange concept?
The most beautiful words are always flowed from the most broken soul.
What a strange concept?
There's a beauty in broken things even light has to be fractured to make colors.
*Broken is a temporary state for humans,
Broken never existed to begin with.
Hii guy it's my first poetry 💖
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