Motherland

When the poet says to me

that we can speak about birds

I become restless

Because I suspect whether it is not our own epic bird

When my spouse says to me

That we can sing about limits

I am aware of a dervish who lost his tongue and land

Twirling and twirling and dancing

And saw a world without frontiers.

The stormy petrels harp that

The alleys would include the west bank

Those who lost shelters

Got dressed and wore their ornaments

Might get ready for their last journey

The children who ask where their birth land is

Would be taken to their schools

And served sweets

And called "darlings"

Then they would be shot on their chests

Without surprise or fear

They would fall dead calling their moms

In the end they would all be stamped terrorists.

Falcons and foxes would eat a tasty meat.

Intoxicated Singing

Intoxicated with the spirit of poetry
I sang in the dialects of hamlets,
Pasted with cow dung
And decorated with straw
A ruffian among the crowd
Often speaking things unheard
To laymen and folks
I sang in the dialects of hamlets
I was singing things not known to me
Sacrifice, struggles, and martyrdom
I wanted to demolish the church
To make a new one, and
I would make it from the ruins of the old one
But I would run my sermons in the old one
I would cut the plantain trunk
And plant the leafy part
And I would sing about my leaves
Flying in breeze
MY spouse is away
In her comely attire
Of love and affection
In the paradise of life
I wish to sit singing
Lonely in the valley
With a reverberating note
To please her round the clock
But my singing always betrays me
It sings of lives gone
Into the fathoms
Where martyrs live
And paradise
Where songs are made
Trees without leaves
Embrace me in harmonious horror
Into their bony branches
Screeching in silent tones
Rains fail mankind
Into an infernal battle of life
And bleed the emotions
Into fluid maggots
Merci… merci… plead the buns
We can’t enter the juicy dirt
Of human mouths in the battle field
Merci… merci…
And I am intoxicated with the spirit of poetry!

When Death is imminent

In the threads hanging from heaven
Fly butterflies
Sun and Earth
Join together
Within the dense pores
Creation of truth and equality
Has begun on the mountain slopes
Sculptor has begun meditation
Before the heaps of clay
New fields of struggle
Are in formation
With kindliness and love
As weapons
Along the paths to heaven
Sights of the army of love
Marching forward
The final moments of
Ecstasy
Until I dissolve in my end
Through wind, rain and sun

In Wait

Waiting for the tram

By this narrow lane

I spent a seed to germinate,

To grow into a tree,

To flower and fruition

Waiting for the train

By the blue lake

I spent an egg to hatch,

To wing into a sparrow

And fly awayWaiting for the ship

By the hillI spent a sperm to be born

As myself as helpless,

To grow into a tall buffoonery

Vain, vain are the waiting,

Silence and loudness

And the hugs and cuddles;

Vain, vain are the waiting,

Cruelty and roar,

And frowns and spasms of porn

Foaming in the lake

Swimming and dipping into ponds

Tasting the wetted flesh

I would satiate

As if a lion

With a live stag eaten;

Or a tiger roaring gratified

With lots of venison tasted.

And my soul claims her wholesome

Today morning
Birds lost their feathers
Plants their flowers
Mountains their dales
Deer its horns
And I lost my pen

Piercing out of my heart
The lark has flown away
Heavens have claimed her songs
Angels her smiles
God her soul
And my soul claims her wholesome

She had a bird in the cage
A falcon with screeching cries
And with a sharp beak
Ready to break love and ties
It had a fragrance
Spread everywhere in the labyrinth

The tree is still there tall and high
With a lightness of cool and warmth
Standing sentinel to soldiers of love
Shading a roof for fighters of lust
Beyond the hamlets of stags
Orchards of butterflies
And slums of values and priests.

The Shepherd of flames

The shepherd of flames
Eats with his tongue extended
He has no hands
In the end
He has only the will to destroy
In the oven
In the chamber of suicide
On the battle fields
And in wild fires
Black tongues remain
That can't be seen.
He has limitless wealth
But it's of no use to him
Soon
He will combust
And after
Fly in ashes
In breezes.
His spouse
Will bring sticks to the fire
They will crack and burn
She will romanticize the fire
Pouring olive oil
And after
She will wear
A rope of hemp grass
Or of crushed palm leaves
Around her neck.

Trees of The City Park

The cold dawns of winter Wrapped themselves On the trees of the city park The morning walkers Created spiral circles Peacock feathers With their wide open eyes Shone in lustrous circles In the inkpot of poetry Rose a c minor from scale of octave; In the wild forest Peacocks, stags and reeds; Go ahead, Before the untamed, wild elephants Come to cross the road, Go forward. Royal courts remain in wait for you, Life and drowsiness are creeping Through the way faring towns. Bullocks are tormenting water and mud In paddy fields. Sunflower blossoms, Thick breasts of plateaus Secrete sorrows; Drown not in them, Go forward. Winter is a mere beginning, Not an end. Beginning of a revolution, An epoch, a history, And an end. The secretions of the medicinal plants Destroyed in the war marches Come to you along the mountain slopes Oh, ocean, to you. Seasons creep again, In the end winter raise its hoods On the Christmas trees; Again trees of the city park.