Under the rain, the book wets its letters and opens the pages to the horizon, and the readers are the words that flowed in the streams and habitats of a book that paved its way, lovers who became addicted to sitting with the best companion and in whose sitting they became disciples, between whose eyelashes dreams of the sunrise, of the sun rising from among the folds and intentions, drooping with its eyelashes so that the universe is illuminated by minds that weave the threads of love. Between page and page, and between them, lotus flowers bloomed in minds that were still green and fresh, and souls like a candle that shed a ray of life, and shed tears of joy over the close, intimate relationship between the word and the question of existence, “Why me and not us?” Here the book becomes a cloth patterned with the letters “Dad”, woven with a needle of bright words. Here the word has become like the sky surrounding all the affairs of our lives, controlling our high-tech era, as well as our spontaneity and the nature of the Alpha and O.
Philosophy says that life is a canvas. We are the ones who purify its canvas so that the world can tremble under its sheet in safety and reassurance, and its dreams become butterflies colored with joy.
Under the rain, the mind colored its page and spread over it a sheet of days that manifested themselves in a celebration devoid of dimensions other than the dimensions of love. It is this antidote, this path that was followed by a state whose pillars were united in love, whose branches branched out in love, and whose branches grew in longing for the horizon and yearning for a star in the sky that appears to be the crystal of the cosmos. His window to joy.
At the book fair, the book appears as if it were flakes thrown by the cloud as a greeting and tribute to an occasion that has origins in the beginning and there is no end to the word. It is the sky that colors our dreams, the stars of the night and the sun of the day, and we… we, the children of the earth, yearn for a star that illuminates our souls and engraves on the pages of our hearts the phrase: “Come, let us draw a different picture of life.” Drawn by the ignorant and the masters of hatred,” and thus the caravan of the generation continues, carried on the shoulders of feelings more delicate than the fruit of a mulberry, softer than the eyelash of a gazelle, and more fragile than Najla Kahila.
God…how majestic and terrifying history is when it combines the beauty of the word with the majesty of beauty, so that life becomes a sea song narrated by a sailor who is tired of diving into the depths of meanings and has never stopped singing.
Sometimes we are very late to sit with a close friend for reasons beyond our control. I will not say the reasons for the rain. In our country, combat teams spend their lives and resources to make the place look like a mirror that reflects the purity of the land as well as the consciences of our family and loved ones. But the circumstances are multiple and the result is the same: I was late for days and did not visit my friend. When I woke up and cleared my head of all the affairs and sorrows attached to it, I found it growing among the publishing houses like a giant, lofty, watering tree. The words echoed between its pages, and the lovers of the word stood in silence, choosing between this book and that. In all cases, any book is important, no matter how great our observations about it, because it is a product. Effort, and in any effort there must be a seed that may be the beginning of planting new poetry. As I passed here and there between the velvet alleys, I was passing through eyelashes that eluded me in a crowd of chronic emotional dryness. I felt that I was at the beginning of arranging my feelings and coordinating their leaves.
#rain
