From their treetops
the crows already see
the coming year
Last day of the year…
amid the bare trees I walk
on my solitary way
My lonely path
into the new year wanders
between bare trees
This, my life,
I animate with my heart
and live as poetry…
New year
old resolutions
this life of poetry
A thinker is one who rides his solitude on lofty wings that take him up over and beyond mountains and cities, giving him eyes to see things those who dwell in society never dream of seeing. For that reason, when he speaks no one understands him, and when he comes back to society he must use the mask to be intelligible. If is both a curse and a blessing to go through the world in such a way, unseen, hidden.
The hyper sensitive will feel guilty for things they did not even do, they are always ripe for submission.
We can never be rid of the mystical impulse because science can never exhaust the mystery of life.
Without love even beauty becomes tiring and ultimately a burden.
This solitude, I cultivated it all my life so that it could, one day, be large enough to contain your presence.
Solitude, my sole companion, the only candle lighting the corners of my heart.
Poetry is the translation of the heat between our bodies, the gravity that pulls even stars from their orbit.
لا شعر يوفيها حقها فلغزها أعمق من كل شعر.
صوفيُّ القلبِ والهوى.
I look at it, this world,
and in my eyes the last ray
of a setting sun
With many it happens as with a dead star, all the lost loves and the unnoticed griefs crowd within their hearts until the weight becomes unbearable. Looking in the mirror, they wonder how it came to this, and no longer recognize themselves. To go on, they have to lock themselves away, turn away from who they are. Time passes, life moves on, from this abyss they no longer know how to pull themselves out from. The real struggle is not to lose what’s best in us.
This cold night…
my heart is a candle
listening to the wind
This warmth between us
the knitted verse of poetry
~
Life happens while you wait
for a lover to ease the knot of fate
~
What am I? — Just a shadow passing in the rain.
~
If someone asked me
what proof have I got
that I really lived,
I’d only have my poetry.
~
Wounded by this longing,
I write poetry.
~
Water washes the skin but rain cleanses the soul.
~
Barefoot
she walks in my dreams
spilling moonlight
from her dark hair,
her breath
a candle whispering
the softest intimacy.
~
Watching her sleep,
to the candle’s light
he weaves his breath
and covers her gently.
Writing, when true and honest, is a path that leads us deeper and deeper into the forest of silence. In the end we become listening itself, vibration, tune, melody, the inner sound of the world and all its objects; we become, if it is possible, pure openness. We also become extremely solitary, as the distance around us grows and grows. It cannot be said that we lost ourselves, but that we traded one path for another. Of course, this choice cannot be recognized by the majority who are only familiar with noise and oblivious of their own soul.
Away from the world,
I long to live in a little cabin
lost in the wild,
there to listen
to the heartbeat of the world,
to wait for the sunset and the dawn,
to be found by the forest,
to read and to write
not as a hermit,
but as a man who has come
to the essence of things.
كالنجمة الوحيدة
بقي الشعر في داخلي
،كل هذه السنين
أتبعه لأمضي
.على دربي الوحيد
This poetry within me
a lone star shining
through the passing years;
following its light I go
on my solitary path.
At work all day
birds of poetry
keep visiting my cell
في العمل طوال النهار
وحدها طيور الشعر
تزور زنزانتي
~
Autumn evening…
my heart a candle lit
by the longing of the years
~
Her silent face
a window open
on the vastness of space
Rain…
the impassioned kiss
of earth and sky
~
Poetry…
stripped of everything
except this longing
~
Alone in this world…
my path deepening
into autumn mist
All I’ve got left
is this growing body,
in its dark depths
preparing the seeds
of a future life
I will not live,
fermenting the ink
for a new poem
that will be written
long after I’m dead.
Poetry,
my one faithful love,
the only one who keeps
watch over me
and waits
and waits
to touch my face
and fill my heart.
~
Not just the earth,
touched by autumn’s rain
even this longing
exudes poetry
~
The moon’s light dissolves
all memories
of past and future,
and ties everything
in a silent knot
that whispers: “now.”
Nothing exists
outside this moment,
nothing lives
outside your heart.
~
Je t’aime, il lui a dit,
chaque jour au lever du matin,
chaque jour au coucher du soleil.
أحبكِ، قالها لها،
كل يوم عند طلوع الضوء،
كل يوم عند مغيب الشمس.
~
In the end, logic is the death of man; it’s where the poetry in his soul goes to die.
~
For a poet, it is enough, in this world, to have a little corner in which to sit with a book, a desk and some paper, to read and write to the light of a candle, lit by the impassioned flame of longing.
~
There are many who preach hate in the name of love.
كثيرون هم من يبشرون بالحقد باسم الحب.
~
I value a heart by how much longing it is capable of holding.
~
My life – I measure it in moments of poetry.
~
This solitude – without it I would not recognize my face.
Writing one poem
then another,
this all my life will be…
Sitting alone I gaze
at the autumn moon.
Without a name
I go alone…
winds of autumn
Sans nom
je vais tout seul
sous le vent d’automne
~
Autumn evening…
the smell of a flower blooming
on the edge of my days
~
Autumn evening…
this loneliness deepens
with the colors of the sky
~
Her smile…
something to take with me
on the long journey
ابتسامتها
شيء لآخذه معي
في رحلتي الطويلة
~
Réunissant nos âmes
l’amour fusionne nos corps
en un seul poème
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
The thing which affects artists more acutely than regular people is how greatly they feel the weight of loneliness. This weight is so tyrannical that they seek out many ways to shed it, mainly through their creative impulse. But it is a process which never succeeds, for, apart from the momentary orgiastic feeling in the moment that art is expressed and in which the artist jumps out of himself, the loneliness returns. Art and artistic expression deepen the feeling of loneliness through time, but it is not a loneliness which severs and isolates the artist from his or her surrounding, on the contrary, it enables a greater and more intense and attentive form of relationship with nature and life. Loneliness is a weight that constructs painfully through many many years, but it strips to the bones and makes the artist shine in the light of their truth. Blessed are the lonely who turn their loneliness into art.
The person who is spiritually inclined will find himself drifting away from every day practical matters and the concerns and aspirations of normal society. Thus, in time, the language he uses will no long be sufficient to form a common understanding. He will drift on, as though in a cloud of solitude, but he will be connected to something else, something more inward and less tangible, and also something that cannot be shown to others who would demand a justification for his way of existence. This basic rift has since eternal times marked the existence of the artist, poet, philosopher, shaman and saint separating them from the practical and society oriented folks. This is still at work today in such kind of people, but not without a feeling of guilt more acute than before. When in previous ages this spiritual bent and way of life may have been justified, or even seen as a privilege, today, and under the guise of psychology and capitalism, it is looked upon with a wary eye, and the person labeled as psychologically and economically unsound.
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
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.
Rooted in Love 