قصيدة غير محجبة

I did not survive;

The distance was not a balm,

The train was neutral to the point of betrayal

And the seats were empty.

With curvy hips enough to enchant

This poem is confused,

I did not survive, my lady..

I did not survive! Without pretense..

They deceived you;

When they deceived my mood, rather the mood of the fables, and delved into the false wishes

I caught a glimpse of you hiding from the phoenix the pile of its ashes, so it wouldn’t return again,

Or to return—if it does—lightly focused at the resurrection;

Shall I create life so that the ghoul extends all its heads

At the approach of death?

I might die from a trick, or a gap in what the distance and the distance coincide with

It was said: The times of distance are cunning,

Or shall I settle for a bullet of longing fired treacherously?

With the grace of your legs, your throne is cold

Since you borrowed its likeness and departed behind a guaranteed prophecy;

This is me, and a city longing for your scent and your pouring into the heart, a prophecy.

Alas for Sheba,

Alas for my passion for her...

Two alike

If the palace of the mirrored bottles rejoices

We were touched by a sadness colored by imagination

So we rejoice..

This is clear talk with no ambiguity..

..............

Its pillars were shaken by the whisper of a hoopoe.

Sheba, with all its horses and suns

Has no spirit in it,

Its spirit has been in Jerusalem since a sealed message, and a consultation..

Do not wound the lust of the poem

Tease its buttons until dizziness

And dance with it openly

This poem is shameless

Is it enough for you that we are equal in the poetry of the eyes?

I have rooted myself in your pores, a stream from whoever may pass:

I am here!

So keep your limits, and stoke the suspicious fire retreating

I know the story will take you once against me,

The distance will incite you,

My voice will disappear,

They will celebrate the culprit,

And you will adorn yourself for me:

Those rituals are lame,

And a turning point..

Those rituals are hostile, my lords!

So we are equal then?

And you left in my wounded heart a wasteland and bombs,

You filled the wells of the road,

You planted mines,

And you lost the map in the maze of an abandoned village

They tried to cross, and the crossing smiled and extended—so they would be vexed—half of its tongue..

My shadow still believes in the sun

But the road to the truth is ungrateful

Do you have a retreat for the narrative of the lips,

This poem is poetic

In my quiver is a small naive request:

Sprinkle your vows in the cities gathering, and arrange a woman burdened with her magic and her cunning!

Will you refuse?

I want her to be a woman in proportion to your flowing and your choice,

Teach her to be you in capturing my secret

In silence,

In the piety of the provocative stature that cannot be resisted,

In the will of two fingers writing and drawing and intoxicated

And intoxicating the entrances of temptation,

In the impetuosity of the lips,

The innocence of the eyes before their gust

In what two hands reveal to the waist.

In the mute navel, filled with its wildness,

In the murmurs that return, and in the straight talk without rules;

Teach her how to fall into ecstasy, so she returns it to the shelf completely mad and besieged;

Rather, teach her how to rain two clouds.. two clouds, so two clouds, and do not stop committing the pouring murmurs.

And if it continues, teach her to be beautiful with a pierced slumber

And a fall of hair that may seem bad on any other woman;

And elegant with a leather bracelet resting on a wrist glowing with the sun

After noon;

Teach her when she laughs to be silly and mischievous

And alluring

And adventurous.

Let my slender body be delivered to her,

And the mummified heart in the coffins of despair,

And memory.