I can stay in my room for a long time, or I wander on my face without reason.I rush madly towards companionship, or stare as a wall in the face of others.There is no difference!.Khamwir Dick the jinn and the texts of Ibn Hanbal, the existence of Abu Al -Ala Al -Maari and Sufism of Al -Ghazali.The rationality of Ibn Rushd and Sadiya Al -Halaj.Butterflies in the love bed..Underground Gladon?There is no virtue except for two people, one of which is excessive, and the other is negligent.And everyone chooses his residence and happens to choose the house.The world is hostile and the way for the house is safe, and it is - unlike friends and lovers - does not change its face every two minutes, just as the house has windows and a closed door tightly.He is a good listener when you want gossip, nudity or crying.Above all, you have to make sure that the door is closed, this is what my grandmother, whose wooden door is in the middle of the metal, says, my grandmother, who refused everyone - except for me - guarding her sleep due to snoring and gossip sleep.I will close the door on winter nights.Someone is now continuing to close it in dreams and nightmares and if I closed it before, for fear of wolves and cold winds, I am now doing fear of war, bullets and the dead who are wandering with a shift in the rifles.In the Huffana, in the middle of Damascus, a man and his guest, the Iraqi poet, are racing to prove the rudeness of the war through poetry first, then through the description and when each of them fails to persuade its owner, they exchange a final phrase: if you see ....And if you see ... here it becomes a theater, and the minds have a place, and the evil is a pillow.Drink my coffee, and I think of you sliding my thinking automatically for war, war and love is a son from one belly.I think about doors, barricades and maximum limits.The doors of heaven, doors of Damascus, gates of cells, doors of homes..When my girlfriend invited me to celebrate my religion, the happiness of the celebrations was my happiness, a shepherd to find his sheep, which was lost from the herd..The exaggerated joy must turn into the opposite if I told them that I lost my faith in the way they know.The wine of faith here is mixed with incense and musk.Sugar without wine, sugar with the words and songs stolen by the songs of love. The face of my girlfriend is imported and we are on the way to me and ask me gently about my heart, not how it happened?Stress in my eyes and then silence.She goes on a long way and waves for me as if she was looming to a memory!I go to Paar soon, here the wine is adulterated with tea, not in words.Here the sentences flowed fragrant after the first cup of Atna after the third cup.My friends talk about everything.About religion, the people of the peoples.On myths and women's Jews, on the thighs of Monica Bellucci, on Che Guevara, and Rosa Luxembourg..I think how someone who lives in the open can leave the myth branch.And how for those who looted his dreams to think of the Aristotelian logic! In front of his tent, my uncle welcomes me to hold my hand and leads me, apologizing because he does not have a chair..And the chairs are in his distant home.We sit over two opposite stone, telling me that the darkness is dangerous in these parts and that they saw an angel between the tents.He delegates his luck because he did not die and relax as my father.He is silent for seconds and then changes his opinion, he says that he is lucky because he received the gospel of the return, which is a hair that fell from the ancestor of the Holy Prophet.He comes out of his forefront, a leafy handkerchief, see..I found it at the tenth verse of Surat Al -Malik.(Tabbanak who has the king's hand) ٭ ٭ (You know it) The hair resembled his white head hair.Complete with two eyes: seven or seven months.I say in secret and possibly seven emes.In the war, the irrational flouris..It is the ultimate boundaries ... the automatic..The last limits of the mind and the heart before the ship scratches towards the bottom ... the limits that do not compromise (before which death and the background of death) are the slopes of the dangerous spirit, where the bridge collapses behind you and all the roads are wiped out, and the panic birds click bread your reassurance.We stare in the absolute and search for it, in faith, in love, in the hat of Guevara, in the voice of Umm Kulthum, in a hair or a dream! A man in the bus says: A person is like a monkey who leaves a branch except to hold another second.Human like parlors is the best invention ever.Please: It is a brutal creature and this is my opinion and I will not change it.But it is poor (shouting the Buddha from behind the wheel) and continues: Look at how to destroy himself and he has to be either here ....Or there ....I repeat and come out of my mouth, the voice of Darwish: I am not here and I am not there, and I am not here ....My hand trembles, I must drink in drinking.I search in my wallet for the key to the door, so I mix it with another. I need a time to find it.My head is cloudy and distracted, my eyes collide with a wide and frightening range, and I am overwhelmed by a cold wind.I pay the door, so my feet are sliding and died ....I love from the top of the edge ....I see my uncle looking between the pages of a sacred book ... My brother wears the Guevara cap ... my girlfriend shakes her head and her eyes closed.Two lovers cry blood ... an angel over a hole ... and a cut header bleeding over a fence.Double image of Darwish on the page of the vast sky reads from a white paper: it is the war of the miracle of the Lord.Is this a poem by Darwish or?What is going on for me!I must be delighted ... and I am certain that I love ... I am thinking and I am thinking about the neighbors of lovers with friends who destroyed every door! The doors ... all the doors were nothing but a hoax ...
٭ ٭ From the book “The gods of Tamr”
Syrian writer