Author: Pierre Mhanna

Aube : le poète, cœur débordant, sème la joie du jour. Dawn: the poet's overflowing heart sows the joy of the day.

Haiku # 732

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Spring morning…
a crow jumping
happily in the grass

صباحٌ ربيعي
حتى الغراب يقفذ
سعيداً في الأعشاب

One day I will touch you
and it will all make sense
in my heart

‏يوماً ما سألمسك
وعندها ستجد الحياة
معنىً في قلبي

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The Sacred Longing

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At the core of each of us
there is a sacred longing,
an ever burning flame
that quivers with divine light,
it is the restless source
ever pulling at our heart,
turning our pain and sorrow
into its own exquisite wine,
it is the voice of God
in a quiet moment,
it is the rose opening us
to the eternity of the sky.

There is a sacred longing at the core of each of us, it’s how God taps into our hearts, uniting us all through the grace of Love.

Wandering Thought # 349

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The past doesn’t let us go if we simply let it drop. If we turn our backs to it, it would cling to us tenaciously, cling with its claws and fangs, pulling us into it. The way beyond the past, paradoxically, leads through it; it is an act of surrender not from the past, but to it. Only by surrendering this way, as a seed in the soil, may we finally accept what happened to us, the thing the past wanted us to hear, and so finally be transformed. The way into our future self thus requires us to go back, and often visit those places and those people we left long ago, give a face back to those creatures turned shadow, listen to them and finally incorporate into us, into our living life, what they were meant to teach us all the way. The only way beyond the past is to let it happen. There are events we suppress our whole lives.

Wandering Thought # 348

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‏قد تشتري النقود كل شيء، لكنها، في النهاية، لا تستطيع أن تشتري قِيَماً روحية، لا تستطيع أن تشتري الحب أو المقدرة على الحب، لا تستطيع أن تشتري السعادة أو أن تصنعها. ‏لذلك فالنقود، كهدف بذاتها، هي علامة على الفراغ الروحي والعاطفي للإنسان الذي يظن أن بامتلاكه المال يكون قد أمتلك شيئا ذو أهمية ومعنى، بينما، في الحقيقة، يسعى ويسعى دون أن يجد. السعي وراء المال للمال هي الوسيلة الأكثر نجاحاً لاستعباد الإنسان. يكفي أن نزرع غريزة المال في الإنسان ليستعبد نفسه.

The Nest

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A small bird
pecks the ground
looking for small twigs
to make its nest.

I, sitting close by,
reading my book,
wonder if I’m not doing the same,
searching amid the words
for little twigs
to make my own nest,
the nest that will warm
my soul and heart.

Yet I know,
no matter how far and deep
I search, no matter
the twigs I find
and the worded nests I build,
no nest will truly hold my soul
and keep my heart warm
as the palms of your hands
cupping my aging face,
as your love holding me
through this long life.

Wandering Thought # 347

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Consumerism isn’t just a market model, it’s also a human model. We consume other people and relationships the same way we consume commodities for no other reason than boredom and the artificial need for something new.

In this way, our relating to others and, indeed, to ourselves, takes on a shallow dimension and never hits or strives for depth. We crave that which thrills and titillates us, but only momentarily, and do not know of the pleasures that patience, time and discipline can give.

We have modeled our relationship with the world, with others, and with ourselves after the consumerist ideal, and in the process have lost peace and deep relatedness. We are agitated, constantly driven to change people the way we buy new clothes.

We are consumers, but in the process it is we who are consumed; it is we who are no more than an empty shell, filled with nothing more than the sound of the waves, an echo and no substance, a shadow of an agitated flame.

I Write to You

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I write to you
the way a bird
feels the wind
gliding under his wings,
the way the fire crackles
with passionate heat
to consume ever wildly,
the way a root
with infinite patience
descends into the dark;
I write to you
the way the rain
kisses the earth
after a long summer,
the way a monk
prays to God
in the solitude of his cell;
I write to you the way
wine ferments in darkness
and wheat grows gold
in the summer sun,
the way dawn fills the heart
with the still clarity of its light.
I write to you because I love you
and you have turned my life
into a journey of love.

Wandering Thought # 246

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Myth is not dead if we still feel in our hearts something of the magic of a year that ends and one that begins, of a cycle returning, beginning again, filled with the power of renewal. This eternal recurrence is the essence of the most ancient myths; that the world has been ordained by divinity to return again and again as an emulation of the divine, and this to eternity.