Last stand of August
amid the passing clouds
a waning moon
~
Not her skin
it undresses her feelings
moon in the sky
ليسَ بَشَرَتِها
هو يُعَرّي مَشاعِرَها
القَمَرْ في السَماء
~
Sleep can wait
another minute to gaze
at the silent moon
~
The trail of kisses he left
at night she feels it
burning on her skin
~
كلما صمتّ
قليلاً سمعته في قلبي
حفيف الذكريات
~
المرأة التي أحبّ
على بشرتها أخطّ
قصائد روحي
~
هذه الوحدة
بدونها لكنت وجهاً
آخر يمشي معِ الحشودْ
Nudity is just another veil.
~
Naufragé du monde moderne, j’ai pris refuge sous le ciel de la poésie.
~
Longing – a word filled with endless distances.
~
رحلةُ الشِعرِ هذِهِ لعلّها لا شيءٌ آخر غير البحث عن لمسةِ امرأة.
This journey of poetry – perhaps it was nothing more than a search for a woman’s caress.
~
معطرٌ بأنفاسها
الدخان من فمها يصعد
ليملأ الغرفة
بحجابٍ رقيق
من الرغبة
~
In his heart
he feels her beauty
transformed into an ink
that he longs to write back
on the pages of her skin
~
Jalouse
une à une
elle empreinte ses baisers
en touchant les lèvres
au bout de ses poèmes
~
Early morning,
the sound of a rooster
crowing in the distance,
the wind stirring in the tall trees
as a bird softly sings,
your head resting on my belly
with my fingers running
through your black hair.
If happiness ever was
it is this moment.
When I think of you
I come near
to something unsayable;
when I try to say it
I sink in the afterglow
of a deep prayer;
quietness opens
a door in my heart
and there you are,
a mystic sunk
in intimate conversation,
a flame kept alive
by the grace of love.
Unfinished poem…
at dusk I sit watching
a leaf in the wind
~
Loneliness –
without it I’d be
just a face in the crowd
~
Moonflower
her body in my bed
burning softly
~
Sous la lune d’été
sa peau nue sauf
de la chaleur de ses baisers
تحت ضوء القمر
بشرتها العارية الا
من حرارة قبلاته
Summer moon…
her bare skin covered
in the warmth of his kiss
Poème inachevé…
tremblant je quitterais la vie,
une feuille d’automne…
~
من عُطرِكِ عرفتُ اسمِكِ
لا أقولُهُ ولكني
أحفظَهُ في داخلي
~
From your fragrance
I knew your name
I don’t say it
but safe keep it
deep in my heart
~
في حفنة تراب
كم من دمعة وابتسامة
بعثرها الزمن؟
In a handful of dirt
how many smiles and tears
scattered by time?
أعاني من الأرق لأن نار وجهك تسكن أحلامي.
~
It is her fragrance
that sets the garden
into motion,
she walks in
and everything is alive
with light and love.
~
Unrecognized, our desires come to haunt us in the night.
~
Night does not exist in the city except as an anomaly.
~
This poetry
a trail of leaves
that I follow
deep into the forests
of my childhood,
into the deserts
and high mountains
of my longing,
reminding me of who I am
and who I want to be.
~
Wrapped up in his arms
she unwinds her day,
her breath and thoughts slowing down,
his embrace filling her
with safety and warmth,
as the world outside fades
and a single star shines
from the quietness of their belonging.
~
الحب هو وليد اللحظة، أما الصداقة فتبنى.
Love is the child of the moment, but friendship is built through time.
Spring evening
my heart is a bell
struck by silence
~
All this poetry…
I forget the words
and keep the silence
~
Cette poésie
à l’écrire je sens mon cœur
battre avec le tien
~
Ecrivant la poésie
se cœur qui bat
surchargé d’amour
Writing poetry
this beating heart
overflows with love
~
As long as it lasts
walking the mists of life
writing poetry
For a reason
I can’t understand
the little bird
pecking a fruit
fills my heart with joy
العمرُ لم يُبقِ مني
الا هذا الشعر
أكتِبهُ لأقول أنني أُحبكِ
~
Spring in the mountains
all day I sit listening
to the wind in the pines
Without them knowing
all the poets and painters
borrow from your beauty
to write and paint
~
Night falls
In the darkness
I feel myself being lowered
into a place of light
~
I begin every day with a small poem, and that is the little sun I plant inside my heart to accompany me throughout the day, that is my little prayer, my conversation with God.
I began by seeing her with my eyes, then I saw her with my heart.
It is the kindness that I love most in a face.
My woman has a body made of poems; I unravel her by delving into the waters of her mystery.
~
أكتب
كأنني امرر أصابعي ببطئ
فوق تعاريج بشرتك،
كأنني أتنشق رائحة شعرك
في صباحٍ خريفي.
~
When I am alone and silent
I find your face floating
to the surface of my heart
like a gentle wave of light
~
Though I’ve only known it
through the grace of poetry
your touch has pronounced
a holy utterance in me
turning my heart into a chapel
and a place of worship
filled with the fire of your love
These poems, I write them
so I would not forget
how you taste like,
how you smell,
how simply seeing you
fills my heart with light.
These poems are doors
I keep going through,
doors opening to rooms
filled with endless skies,
rooms where you have just left
as I walked in
leaving only your scent
and a letter or two.
These poems remind me
of the stain of your lipstick
on the wine glass from that night
that we laughed and shared our silence
and looked into each other’s eyes
and knew.
These poems are my heartbeats
caught in a capsule
and carried by the waves
always towards you,
but you are the sea
and you are the waves
and the shore beyond is you.
These poems always say
one and the same thing,
“there is no place left in me
for being and non-being,
I am all-being, in you.”
These poems always say the same thing
though each time
a little stronger and more deeply,
these poems say, “I love you.”
These poems I write
are birds I send away
over mountains and fields,
through white clouds
and over distant seas,
so that, one dawn of day,
they might return
and tap at my window,
fill my heart with their song
having seen your beautiful face.
كخسارة مباراة شطرنج
حُبَّها أتى فجأةً
دون أن أراه
~
Spring morning
greeted by the scent
of orange blossoms
بنيتُ لكِ في قلبي
كنيسةً صغيرة
ملأى باسمِكِ
~
In my heart
I built a small chapel
filled with your name
~
Her deep eyes
a perfect day
to fall in love
~
ما أحبَّ الرجلُ امرأةً إلا ولمسَ الشعرُ قلبهُ.
~
أنظرُ في عينيها
ثمَ أقبلها واحدةً واحدة
أزهارُ بشَرتِها
As I hold my pen
her skin under my fingers
stretches into a landscape,
each word I write
spins a little vortex,
a turning Sufi, a small flower,
all spreading across her skin,
spreading like a fire,
dripping into her soul
and coursing deep down,
filling her with more love
than she can understand,
with unbearable gentleness
opening her wide,
opening her to God,
opening her to the sky.
One by one I kiss
the flowers of her skin,
then look into her eyes.
In their eyes the stories
we’ve long forgotten –
animals in the wild
~
حتى بعد أن تستحم
تجد رائحتهُ
على بشرتها
~
Mon cœur
à chaque moment du jour
s’envole vers toi
~
وحيداً في الليل
لم يُبقِ الشعر مني
الا قلباً يرتجف
~
If I could choose
one place to touch you
it would be your heart
~
لو كان ليَ أن أختار
أن ألمُسَكِ في مكانٍ واحد
لاخترتُ قلبكِ
~
I do not write for readers; I do not write for the pleasure of writing; I write so I would not forget; I write to remember.
We do not know each other
yet the poem
has always connected us;
in a world of change
this poetry ebbing and flowing
between our hearts
is the only constant,
carrying secret messages
between our souls.
You and me
we’ve always had this conversation,
wordless and mystical,
formless and flowing with pure essence;
without beginning or end
we’ve always been wrapped
around each other,
and this pain that wounds our souls
is the evidence of the place
where we enter each other.
Now, in silence,
I send you this word
to travel on the wind
and find your lips.
Sensibilisé par la poésie l’être aime profondément, avec passion et en totalité.
~
I do not write
I only feel my heart quiver
as I touch your face
~
In my mother’s hands
there’s always a seed
growing roots and leaves;
my mother’s hands are always green.
~
I woke up today
to find myself aging,
and you still
a voice echoing
in the distance,
somewhere far away.
~
Poetry is the heir of the mystical essence of religion.
~
The road to the world has always seemed to me to lead through a deep wood.
~
The poem gives me eyes to look at the world beyond my own death.
~
ضاعت بنا السبل
فانتهينا عاشقين
كلٌّ في بلد
نكتبُ الشعرَ ليلاً
ونحنُ ننظرُ إلى النجوم
علّنا نجدُ فيها شيئاً
من بريقِ الأملِ
She didn’t feel
the frost on her skin
until it melted
under the warmth
of his fingertips
~
مشّطتُ شعرها على مهل
وقبّلت الندى على كتفيها
ثم جلست بينما استلقت هيَ
وأمسكتُ القلم وسال الشعر
حبرا على بشرتها
~
Things break,
people die,
friends and lovers
go into the night
and return no more.
This being human
a sheen of dew left
by dissolving mist
~
With poetry
everything I touch
is her skin
~
الشعر كان صلاته
ادخله متاهة الشوق
وأهداه إلى التجلي
