غيوم عابرة

Resemblance

The master keys are no longer the only ones capable of deceiving closed doors and unraveling their privacy as we once thought.

Faces are the same.

With their replicated features, they have confused the insight of the mirror

and disabled its light scanner.

Thus, it stuttered in reading what lies beyond the lines.

It is no longer the pool of Narcissus or the coffee cup reader.

And shoes with their modern brands have lost their uniqueness, and their shared genes between them and feet have vanished, whose unique rhythm has dried up on the notes of the streets.

To stumble in the discordant melodies of their cylinders.

The level of their steps diminishes in the well of distances

to fall into a vortex that found no shoulder to support the scale of its balance.

All of this

because a poem was forgotten by its poet to close the doors before leaving.

So the lips became crowded with flocks of secrets that shed their cages

and the way back remained once again

a passerby.

As a passerby,

I lost my bag of memories

at the first station I passed through.

Since then,

I have been spelling out the chapters of a novel

from which only the letters of your face remain.

Lost cards

I trained myself from an early age

not to play with losing cards at the table of life.

Thus, my options have narrowed.

Only

a friend with whom we take turns holding one end of the text

so that its course does not deviate from the path of language.

A book of poetry I lean on its shadows against the tree of the ancestors planted

and rising like the molars of reason in the face of the absurdity of globalization and its derivatives

standing as a lighthouse at the crossroads of this cosmic exile.

And I wave it at my digested fables in the bellies of poetry.

And I have other purposes in it.

A woman whose oil lights the lamp of the poem

so that the pupil of her metaphors expands

and the gardens of meaning bloom.

A woman

whose charm reveals to me every time

the tone of writing falters and the platforms of words betray it.

Artificial intelligence

Very soon

in the age of artificial intelligence

this phrase will resonate with us often

when a poet stands to recite a poem that resembles him.

Ah

You have brought us back to the beautiful time.