كلما تذكرت حديقتي الغنّاء، وأزهارها الزاهية، واستئناسي بها، وخوفي عليها من الذبول ومن إغارة الطيور على أوراقها.. أشتاق ذلك التاريخ القديم من عمر قفز به الإبحار في لجج شتى حتى يوشك أن يرتطم بالسنين المترمدة، والآمال التي كانت لا تسعها حدود الدنيا كلها.. وكيف أنها ألقت بي في معارك مع الدمع والتعب لأبحث من جديد عن مسرّات الحياة.
ويا كم قرأت عن تفاؤلات تستوقفني مع روابط الحب وما تختزنه عنه الذاكرة فأنتقل إلى كائنات العالم الضحوك الذي يتكئ تحت ظلال الأغصان الوارقة، وأستمع إلى أصداء، ذلك السجع الذي يترنّم بموال يقول:
ونفسك فاكرمها فإنك إن تهن
عليك فلم تلقَ لها الدهر مكرما
فيثير في النفس الشجن ويستنهض العواطف المأسورة في إغفائها لتتراقص على ذلك النغم الرقيق، ومراجعة الأيام المنسية لاستعادة أفراح الصبا وصور المواقف الإنسانية ما دامت القلوب تنبض والعيون ترى ملامح أمسها القريب فتحسه نقياً متميزاً بـ«الجمال والتواضع». واستعادة أيام إخلاصنا إلى رشداننا وسلامة عقولنا وأجسامنا من عكننات تمنعنا من معايشة لغة الصفاء وشعاعه المتلألئ على جبين الزمن.. ولا تسل عن أيامنا.
أما الآن، فإن المسرّة المستهلكة لا تزال تسكن في زوايا العمر وتخاطبه، ونخاطب زمانه الغائب بشواهد الحاضر الذي نرفض فيه الثناء، ولا نعترف بغير الجفاء، كسلوك جديد، وإصرار البعض على إنكار جوهر الأدب، ومكاسبه وفرض أسلوب آخر ليس له مضمون نقترب به إلى معرفة ذاتنا كأنما نخاطب به من رحل عن دنيانا أو مخاطبة المعاصرين لإثبات التفوق في فهم الحياة وبصمت بعضنا عن ذلك الإخفاق في الأدب وبصمته يكون من الخالدين.
والصادقون يبوحون عن السعادة بغير مقايضة أو بحث عن جاه وغنيمة ولا يستعدون المشاعر وإهانتها.
وللأسف، فإن تعبيرات الحسن وبلاغة البيان محاصرة بالنفور والهوان ممن ليس لهم صلة مع الإحسان ومع الكلمة الطيبة وامتطاء صولة يتفرد بغروره بها من ينكر ضعفه وخيبته ويغتصب مكانة تشهد على تشدقه وتأنقه بمرارة الكلام وفراغ مخزونه من موجبات الاحترام. والتمازج الإنساني يتفق في أشياء ويختلف على أشياء ولكنه لا يصل إلى نقطة سوداء ونار العداوة والبغضاء.
تابع قناة عكاظ على الواتساب
Whenever I remember my lush garden, its vibrant flowers, my fondness for it, and my fear of it wilting and the birds invading its leaves... I long for that ancient date in the life that leaped with sailing through various depths until it is about to collide with the years that have passed, and the hopes that were too vast to fit within the limits of the entire world... And how it threw me into battles with tears and fatigue to search anew for the joys of life.
Oh, how many times I have read about optimism that stops me with the bonds of love and what memory holds about it, so I transition to the beings of the cheerful world that leans under the shade of the lush branches, and I listen to the echoes of that rhyme that hums a tune saying:
And your soul, honor it, for if you disgrace it
you will not find the world honoring it
It stirs in the soul a sense of longing and awakens the emotions imprisoned in their slumber to dance to that delicate melody, and to revisit the forgotten days to regain the joys of youth and images of human situations as long as hearts beat and eyes see the features of their recent past, feeling it pure and distinguished by "beauty and humility." And to recall the days of our loyalty to our reason and the soundness of our minds and bodies from the burdens that prevent us from experiencing the language of clarity and its shimmering rays on the forehead of time... And do not ask about our days.
As for now, the consumed joy still resides in the corners of life and addresses it, and we address its absent time with the evidence of the present in which we refuse praise, and we acknowledge nothing but coldness, as a new behavior, and the insistence of some to deny the essence of literature, its gains, and to impose another style that has no content through which we approach the knowledge of ourselves as if we are addressing those who have departed from our world or addressing contemporaries to prove superiority in understanding life, while some of us remain silent about that failure in literature, and their silence makes them among the immortal.
And the sincere ones express happiness without barter or seeking fame and spoils, nor do they prepare feelings and insult them.
Unfortunately, expressions of beauty and eloquence are besieged by aversion and humiliation from those who have no connection with kindness and with the good word, and riding the wave is unique to the arrogant who denies their weakness and failure and usurps a position that testifies to their boastfulness and elegance with the bitterness of words and the emptiness of their reserves from the requirements of respect. Human mingling agrees on some things and disagrees on others, but it does not reach a black point and the fire of enmity and hatred.
Oh, how many times I have read about optimism that stops me with the bonds of love and what memory holds about it, so I transition to the beings of the cheerful world that leans under the shade of the lush branches, and I listen to the echoes of that rhyme that hums a tune saying:
And your soul, honor it, for if you disgrace it
you will not find the world honoring it
It stirs in the soul a sense of longing and awakens the emotions imprisoned in their slumber to dance to that delicate melody, and to revisit the forgotten days to regain the joys of youth and images of human situations as long as hearts beat and eyes see the features of their recent past, feeling it pure and distinguished by "beauty and humility." And to recall the days of our loyalty to our reason and the soundness of our minds and bodies from the burdens that prevent us from experiencing the language of clarity and its shimmering rays on the forehead of time... And do not ask about our days.
As for now, the consumed joy still resides in the corners of life and addresses it, and we address its absent time with the evidence of the present in which we refuse praise, and we acknowledge nothing but coldness, as a new behavior, and the insistence of some to deny the essence of literature, its gains, and to impose another style that has no content through which we approach the knowledge of ourselves as if we are addressing those who have departed from our world or addressing contemporaries to prove superiority in understanding life, while some of us remain silent about that failure in literature, and their silence makes them among the immortal.
And the sincere ones express happiness without barter or seeking fame and spoils, nor do they prepare feelings and insult them.
Unfortunately, expressions of beauty and eloquence are besieged by aversion and humiliation from those who have no connection with kindness and with the good word, and riding the wave is unique to the arrogant who denies their weakness and failure and usurps a position that testifies to their boastfulness and elegance with the bitterness of words and the emptiness of their reserves from the requirements of respect. Human mingling agrees on some things and disagrees on others, but it does not reach a black point and the fire of enmity and hatred.
