A poem for every thing

I can't cry for a thousands years

Over the remains of friendship and over my late

Sweet days and over the gates of schools the ones

That opened me the notebooks of life and taught

Me that friendship is a gift sparkles accompanied with age

So when a friend comes here

He'll find my arms opened like a tourist plantation

In which goose and birds land.

(2)

I was born twenty one years ago accompanied with

My pen and my art , I will die over my paper

Body that hold me..

The matter of my being fond of writing is just

Like the desert resident being fond of desert , black

Coffee and harps playing

(3)

I don't want to write my autobiography because

I left it asleep in my beloveds' letters  and my friends' poems.

It awakes when the sparrows of morning awake

And it sleeps when the squirrels of the forest sleep

It looks lovely and fanciful just like the

Drawings of Michael Anglo and Leonardo da Vinci 

It looks crazy and can't be postponed

Just like the Beatles' songs.

(3)

writing a poem is not like making sweets, candies

or pipes because the birth of the poem

is accompanied with a heavy contraction

in the poet's mind , imagination and sensation which

requires an arrangement of feelings' scenario.

A thousands million of rebels await the poet's poem

Tear and pain .

A fate of nation could be hung over a poem holder

Which refuses the massacres' scaffold.

(4)

I didn't loved once in my life but my mother

If I loved by all the meanings of the word

My words would have fallen from my pen

Just like the roses and jasmine that fall in love baskets.

My poems that I wrote are a lightly circles

Make me feel how through love man becomes a man

They transfer me from  Africa hidden places and

Amazon forests to Spain gardens and mideast paradise.

They turn me from uncivilization to peace and civilization .

(5)

I like from the west its lack of fear concerning

Discipline, its eyes and its friends.

Talking about discipline in my country

Resembles having flu.

Speech here , sight are rhythematic.

(6)

When I found that the traveling station

Closed it doors infront of me with the

Train announcing by its sound , the death

Of my lost dreams with my friends waving

To me remote.

I felt that it was written in cards

To be alone , to move alone

In my town that I am not stranger concerning it

But now I am a stranger.

Unfortunately no friend came to protect me

From this sadness, nor a father to save me

From the sad or to give me a hug but all the

Bullets were directed to my breast without any fault ..

Eventually I walked to the slaughter like Jesus

The Christ having nothing but my pen and what it wrote.

(7)

I am still dreaming to be near a beloved by

Whom any pains and miseries will be erased

Once our eyes meet…

She is my spring and my winter

My romanticism and my frenzy

I want her to be nearer than my self to me

And nearer than my doubt , fear and my thoughts .

(8)

music is my only weapon.

It turn me a little baby in moments

And an adult poem in the same time.

Music language is one and it word is one

It can't be played in by cards, it does not

Manipulate the nerve harps even if its sound

Vary as the prayers of the temples.

(9)

where shall we weep this home land from ?

where shall we weep this crying child?

While the camels troops moved on pricelessly

All the words are too cheap to describe this sadness.

So let it excuse us if we wrote about it

Because it won't find a point but guns, sword

And coffin smell .

(10)

when does the poet write from ?

he writes from a world in which the sun of

feelings has gone , from a homeland from which

the sparrows, beauty and mountains escaped .

from a homeland that we have not heard nor

read about but in the lines of the notebooks.

The poet writes from a homeland where the moon

Fears to show its crescent , the sea fears to show

Its blue colour and the jasmine fears to show its

White coloures.

Love no more shines from behind curtains.

(11)

if you look now to the west you will know

exactly the meaning of beauty .

Eyes do not turn right then left .

If you walk alone in the streets , the gardens,

 the bars and the lovely sky , you would have known

 the difference between truth and fancy .

if you curse a system or individuals , if the

rope of speech and argument were taken out of your mouth.

(12)

Since I have been here

 I don't know if I am walking my way

 or am I walking in the losing way .

My destiny is to die and live in this struggle.

(13)

You, the holy land where shall we go to reach you?

Is it through the guns' mouthes

 that we have to pas ?

or is it through escaping

 soldiers groups .. and our failure flags ?

(14)

We have to let poetry answer

 because poetry is the language of

 rebels and lovers .

Let poetry answer

what and how did the lazy do ?

Death is mercy

 when you die among others

 poetry could wake one morning

 among jasmine and wheat..

(15)

what is the point of poetry in

 the college of iron , wood and cement ?

What can poetry do among the notes of shykle, dollar or million?

How I can write poetry by numbers.

How can I turn the formulas

 in poetry pot to become a painting of speech .

How can I turn this noise

 into a music of love and dreams?

How can I be a poet of ice and fire at one time?

To be a desert and a lack in one time

, to be romantic and rebel

and to be wise and crazy at one time?

How can I be lawyal and treasurer

 to all the poems I wrote

 , to all the paintings that I drew

 in my childhood, to all the

 poems that I kept

 from my extra ambition .