In his sheets, his books, his fertility, his clamor, his toast, his fireballs, his pouring, his attraction, his hump, his vastness, his clouds of taste and luster, the roof of space, and the floor of the grassy grass, and what is between the eyelids dwells on an eyelash and a throne, and on the eye is that ray and the arm is that arrangement. Al-Bahi trims souls, heals souls, fills the world with a voice and a benediction, and for those who sleep between the ribs, he sends sweetness and awe.
The book is the melodious melody with the awareness of the vocalists, in the niches of passion, it is the tuning in the conscience of lovers, and those who are buried by the opposite and those who are tired of love until the fatigue is hidden within the words, until misery is a tear that enriches, tempts, flees, runs, flows, compliments, justifies, and acknowledges That the book smells of trunks, and the fragrance of the spring, and the drunkenness of the sober when he is in the presence of the book, bound by passion, and the two drunken winds in the womb, and the fortress and branch of meeting, fraught with the dangers of delicious autism.
He is thus foretold, the word has magic, the meaning is sea, and the meaning is walking, and if we entered the abyss, then in the depths of writing there are jewels and bracelets, and in the heart of the delicious predicament lies the theme of life, splendor and splendor, the image lies evident in the folds of Golgotha, the word lies clear In the gyri, we lie in the cavities, heartburn, cursing, we lie in the cells, tenderness and hum, we lie in the cords, a lyre and a tune.
Today, while we are in the book party, we seem in the world the shining of a star in the eyes of a gazelle, who flirts with joy and diversity, and walks arrogantly, cheerful and cheerful, the light of the book falls on her eyelids, and she becomes high, seeps into her consciousness the dream of green grass, her soul trembles, and the fragrance of ink creeps into her consciousness. Its eyes tremble, and the book does not end with eloquence, and clarification, does not end with good codification, it is the ocean that fills the quiver of existence with roaring, and enlightenment, it is the river that washes the fins of the water shepherds, swimming in the cores, and the air, going with meanings towards ends without end.
Today at the Sharjah International Book Fair, in the sunrise and the lightning, rain descends with an awareness of the importance of being readers, being friends of paper, lovers of the word, lovers of hymns, and morning songs.
Today in the Sharjah exhibition, the word seems like a domineering, in love, fascinated by beauty, taken from the benefactors, stolen from the one who tells the story of existence, between the covers of poetry, a novel, a story, or a thought.
It is thus the book, pretentious to the word that the sweepers of technology and technology do not erase, it is thus marked by permanence, like earth and sky.
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