A year passes, another year arrives, and here we are between the light and the pen, planting a dream, sharpening the pen, and sharpening the words, so that grass grows in the homes of our lives, so that the lamps do not go out, and the lights of the stars in the sky do not fade.
A year passes, filled with images that passed from here, from the heart, and others that disappeared from the moment the first glance dawned, and some of them floated around the eyelashes, as if they were a drone that had lost its way.
Some of them are still maturing under the eyelids, and do not leave the eyeball, and no matter how much change, color, and formation they appear over time, these images are the first alphabet of feelings that glowed in the years of soft nails. In meaning, they were flowers that exuded fragrance, and also gave life elegance, and today when you read the diary You feel that life is a tight rope between two cards, one for birth, the other for death, and between them lies the question of existence: “Who am I?”
Years are numbers that follow age, and disappear, shining for a period, then extinguishing, and all that remains is that thought, sharpened like a sword, emerging from its sheath, sometimes sharpening, and loosening its edge at other times, and thus we, the innocent or the wretched, remain, moving in the closed circle, as if we were lost insects. It is as if we are leaves plucked from its branches, as if we are wings severed from the body of birds that have been subjected to change things around them, without scruple or deterrent. The motive is for life to remain in the cycle of replacing snake skins, without the snakes’ awareness. Rather, what happens may be merely coincidental, but even Coincidence is the result of the meeting of two chains of determinism.
A year passes, and with it comes a memory that may be alive and vibrant, but not all of the living are alive. There are those alive, like the dead, but their burial there was delayed. Their feelings are like sawdust, but what remains in the content of life is that we need memory as it is the spiritual food for this mind, which has always been stripped. The sword, floundering in the depths of life, searching for what is lost, asking about the “I” that may have lost its way to awareness and lost its compass, and we always wonder why in life we live in the past state, as if it were yeast in the dough? We do not know that without the past, we remain in emptiness as if we were hollow drums. The past is a book, and the book is a friend that does not betray, and does not stray.
I may rely on the past, but there is no harm, as long as I find in the past my room in which I live, away from the foolishness of the empty soul, the dryness of the heart, and the stiffness of the veins of the mind, at the stage after emptiness.
A year passes and another year arrives, walking slowly, and here we are welcoming him, as if we are in the queues to receive an important guest that clings to the soul as if it were the scent of loved ones, and why not, because the past is a part of time, and time is what conveyed to us the idea that loved ones have a distinctive perfume, a unique aura, and eyes that resemble the eyes of an oryx. A waist like bamboo, a cheek like a candle that melts with the heat of longing, a honeyed lip that tastes like cardamom and saffron, and that it isolates the shadow, and gracefulness like a childhood dream.
#year #year