You travel in the folds of time, and you turn to your old, and you find the aroma in the pigment on the palm of Muhannad’s, and you find the old dress new on slender, lofty, fearless, and presumptuous, tiring you in contemplation, pouring nectar into your joy, and a polite cup, of the glow of intuition, and the pain of the look, So smile, there is no meeting, no survival of warmth, and no midst of passion.
You travel in the ocean, and the white terrain exhausts your efforts to look, and exhausts your awareness of the color, the joy of the cheeks, the redness on two sides, here and there between good and good, the legend of the figure, and the genius of the looks, as if it were the star in its full brilliance, and its complete objectification.
You travel in time, and you ride the horse of passion with all its prime, time, time, old and new, and you are in time the wing of a butterfly, you dress it in color and preservation, and nothing you have gives you the determination to stand firm, and the accumulation of looks, perhaps spreading the secret of anguish, and the reasons for standing on the movement of history, He recites the Books with a loudness similar to the wailing of pigeons, and he wipes the strings of the throats out of intense agony.
You travel, and do not stop in your quest, in order to get from the straw of the old what time has hidden, and what has disappeared from your sight of the extent of separation, and there is no liberation from the burden of fatigue, there is no hug except with emptiness, as if you are the songbird in the empty nests of the eyes of its young, from the chirping of conscience.
God, your travel is long, and you are on the eternal journey, a straw, you are under the cloud, life without spring, and time passes as if the wind breaks the back of your camel, and you pass tirelessly, and you are still waiting for the silence of the whistling, you contemplate the shape and color and do not smile, you do not You know how a smile passes over the gaps, like a stray cloud, then it disappears, and you vanish, leaving nothing but an old face. You love to be surprised with a soft smile, you love to be shocked with a satisfied word, you love, but in love things do not touch, but you feel, when the feeling is The steadfast almond tree in the old house, and those clusters cast their voice in the summer, bright yellow in color that pleases the onlookers, and you are still looking for an excuse from a time that comes to you from a mouth like the roundness of a pinky ring, weaving for you the biography of a revered female being, but it does not, because it surrounds you, and whenever Ah, I said, turn again on your neck, and tighten its reins, until the breath of existence is cut off, and you remain in time, an almond fruit, which has become in the open, after it was gnawed by fangs and molars.
God, is this how time is like a saw on a board whose fibers are torn, the act of an actor who is well versed in optical deception? God, you said decades ago, that you adore the soil when the sweat of two feet wets it, you used to envision the amazing first look, but today you are not surprised by love, nor words, nor the question mark, today you are in time a soul flying by lessons, and admonishing the ignorant in the unseen, the steppes, and the faults Emotions are not fully developed.
God, how wretched you are, and the grief in your heart is like the dust of post-emptiness stages, like a journey into nothingness, like a mathematical problem, without numbers.
So what do you count in time, as long as the numbers are just a shield planted by a charlatan, a sinful liar, and gossip, and he has disappeared from view, claiming that he is immersed in places of worship, or that he is praying in the sanctuary of his solitude.
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