It is as if you are walking on water, as if you are throwing a dream one night at the banks of a memory colored with joy.
Thus it seems that the mangrove walkway is surrounded by flowers with arms adorned with the tender spirits of nature, captivated by the transparency of the night perfumed with faces longing for life, as if they are longing for birds for nests filled with the rumble of water on the other side.
Families crawl into the quiet of evenings brimmed with lamps, as if they are emeralds on fire and good, and those trees are the guardians of the night. The meaning is that those birds in the joyful light party do not cover, nor close their eyelids, they raise the anthem high, drawing from the stars the shriek of their tones, and from the blue sky the sweetness of serenity.
Some wings, late from their bed, continue to swim on the watery carpet of bliss, invoking their lofty instinct as they tickle with the tenderness of wings the feelings of young ones who curled up on hedges like butterflies attracted by silver light.
Here in this place you feel that you are cleaning the cradle of your conscience from the noise and clamor, and that you sing the consciousness of beings as you open the book of nature to arrange your meaning. Walks and you are concerned with beauty, you feel in those flashes that you are envied among nations because you live in this part of the world, as if you are carving memory with a finger of silk, as if you are drawing on a mulberry leaf the history of a homeland that has become among the homelands an icon of beauty, it has become a symphony of exotic melodies, played by a fairy harp.
In this country everything seems polished, as are the windows open to existence, painted with the approval of lovers from the time of cosmic eternity.
In this country trees grow just because they smell the breath of the mouths that have a taste of joy.
In this country, luxury occupies you from the soles of your feet to your eyeballs. In this corridor, things are going briskly as if they were created from a silk needle, and as if the cloud descended on the ground to sew the cloth of people’s dreams, and as if the bird had snatched a pen from its feather to record for history the epic of a homeland that during the fifties was able to leap in the late as noble horses are when their spikes are like lightning in the sky It cuts through the stillness to reach the heart of the tent, fading with passion until sweetness drips.
In the corridor, the night recites his verses for lovers of warmth, and saddles his consciousness’s horses towards the kingdom, believing that the Emirates is an overflow from the waters of the world, and it is a source of great ambitions in a time where there is no place except for the strong who write on the pages of the star the history of a country that was born in order to give birth to its dazzling terms, and the skill of the product, Well formulated and given.
In the corridor, convoys of ideas go, as if reciting a poem hanging on the chest of a beautiful woman who is fond of reciting ideas whenever the ideas are a descendant of the awareness of the love of creativity in everything.
In the walkway, the steps reduce the fatigue of walking, because the carpet is not made of clay, but rather a velvet weave of the belief of the dreamers of a city in the texture of its components, softness, and in the shade of its palms, the luxury of transparent feelings.
#Qurum #Walk