The joy of the mirrors with the faces passing
Turned the heart of the innocent cynically surpassing
Exposing the pain behind a firm face
Granting truth for a confused soul’s doubting
And the light sends my reflection to vain
As if I would be a start to the end closing
Invading the shades against the ego, annoying
Or just to contain an illusion that blocks the crossing
Like death, lowering its face in disdain
From the gentle twilight tone in red glowing
Sending the youth to mourning without warning
Or possessing the sorrow of a woman without resting
Said by her, in scattered voice, hopeless and insane
“These cities – just like my luck – are distressing”
She played on the strings of the mirrors inspired by her pain
As a dissonant silence in the nights while raining
Inhaling light / darkness as if been the same
She needs the miracle of the stars passing
So that it may elucidate the curse of a futile heart
Or by seconds into the past travelling
Might the mirror recognize the secret of her faces again?
That has the reflection of the deep wounding
Or might she need another face?
Until it becomes as she desired … pure and everlasting
Translated from the Arabic poem of Soumia Douifi, “سواحر” (Sawahir).
I wished to find out who are you
Without fairy tales –
Without beau details –
Without love letters –
Though my heart flatters…
…while it’s dying,
Around you, thou never crying;
Only by rejoice and relief,
Feeding my belief…
…believing that my palpitations –
My pupils’ dilatations –
My hampered respiration –
Are blest of your ration.
Since you are the place where I live in –
The air I breathe in –
The bleeding’s hemoglobin –
The arteries’ vigor –
You are my eternal alter ego.
By the corner of the pub,
By the shoes and on them the dust,
By the cup of tea and the fag of cigar,
I am Ceasar wihout owning a single dinar.
By the road I left now and then,
By the battles I failed as a young veteran,
By the failed strategies popped out of my mind,
I am bearing no tragedies above me, nor behind.
By all the knowledge acknowledged,
By all the ever refreshing rusty storage,
By the unknown mistery that I am living in,
I am not guilty of any by the misery made-up sin.
By the gods and things others adore,
By the long beards and women’s chadors,
By the lies about the never ending tomorrow,
I am not to believe but in today, even if it’s full of sorrow.
By the words leaving my meanders,
By those words reaching only others’ ears,
By all the pictures of tomorrow ending as a dream,
I am here to live but the today, by sayin at last: Carpe Diem.
The absence of flames rips my chest off
Like a dark cave craving for a torch,
In it, a heart-formed obsidian,
Clinging to the cold
While lacks and wants
Battle to grant drum and rum,
The flames of haram, burning in emptiness.
If my disappointment dressed in wrath,
It would rumble in hell-flames and chaos,
Reaching the gates of the seven heavens
Asking for justice with the blood of pathos.
All good feelings made out of nothing-
Just as the lightsome grab of a baby’s hand,
Or either heavy as a smile, making compliment-
Shall be enclosed far away of the worldly hell of pathos.
Since, the heavenly drops of happiness
Are drunk up by stone hearted human greyogles,
Playing hazardous games with my rare happiness,
And leaving me in a chaos-like hellfire with my dear pathos.