Your face, whose image he painted in the mirror, still puts kohl in the eyes of my memory, and you still paint the palm of history with the red of loss.
This is the mass of hell that dwelt between the ribs, and still puts its shirts on the aisle of dreams, and warms the wisps of its flames between the folds, and time does not pass peacefully when in the mirror there are the remnants of battles, molars that passed from here, from that painful alley, and the steps did not erase the footprints that Hafeet, carving in the sand a statue of a wallowing hussar, emptied most of his neck at the corner of the first astonishment when the bell rang to announce the end of the optical illusion lesson, and the fading of the brilliance of the fabricated star, and the disappearance of the causes of longing and longing, and the emergence of a gloom masked with a shawl of fake wallpaper.
This is the biography of a being who may have been in a dream, or perhaps he was walking in a foggy way and did not see the truth as it was, but rather saw as the sleeper sees when he covers and in his heart the agony of deprivation, and in his anger dwell bubbles of a reality in crisis with daydreams, and some of these and hallucinations, this is how he imagines The meek creature, laughing at its predicament, and a slip of the tongue hastened it to where the terrible earthquakes lie, and where the fires of hatred rage, when the loss is great, the loss is heartbreaking, and the fall is devastating.
Your face is still in the mirror, and it has some dust on it, and some fierce battles took place in the battles between two souls that did not meet, no matter how long the eyelids of the eyes seek a connection, and no matter how much the two hearts beat, there remains in the ambush what surrounds, obstructs, and prevents even the breath from reaching the lungs, and the blood flowing in The veins, he needed a great infernal machine that could work the pumping, so that the bright red would seep into where the heart opens its arteries, waiting for what revives the restored bones.
God, how daring the mirror is, how bloody with likenesses of faces it could not be formed to become in the old bottle, roses fluttering in the mornings, open to the world with an elegant smile, graceful with rosy cheeks, and sluggish eyes of grace, in their gaze the radiance of the ocean, the brilliance of the tidal wave.
Sometimes a person longs for a huge hammer to strike the plate of his memory, in order to remove the rust and erase the seeds from their surface so that they appear in their time and colors.
I wish you would wake up, I wish you would remove from your slumber the dust of filthy sleep, and revive the old mirror, you will find that it extends a hidden luster under the sheets of some time.
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