From the notebook of a Damascene lover

From the notebook of a Damascene lover

I spread over your immaculate wealth fringes in Damascus... Why do we begin to admonish?

My love, you... lie like a song on my arm, and don't explain why

You are all women.. There is no woman I loved after you.. except that you considered her a liar

O Sham, my wounds have no banks, so wipe away sadness and fatigue from my forehead

Take me back to the walls of my school, and bring back the ink, the chalk, and the books

Those boats, how many treasures were buried in them, and how many memories of Saba were left on them

How often did she draw pictures on her walls, and how many toys she broke on her drawers

I came from the womb of sorrows... O my homeland, kiss the earth, the gates and the meteors

My love is here.. and my beloved ones were born here, so who will bring me back the life that was lost?

I am a whole tribe of lovers, and from my tears I watered the sea and the clouds

A woman turned every willow, and every minaret she inlaid with gold.

These orchards were among my luggage when I left Fayhaa as an expatriate.

There is no shirt among the shirts that I wear except that I find grapes on its threads

How many sailors.. The worries of righteousness calm him down, and he who escapes from the judgment of love has never escaped

O Levant, where are the eyes of Muawiyah, and where are those who crowded the meteor's shoulder?

There are no horses of Bani Hamdan dancing proudly... nor Al-Mutanabbi filling a milking place

And Khaled's grave in Homs, we touch it, and the grave shudders from his visitors in anger.

Lord is alive...the marble of the grave is his abode, and Lord is dead...on his feet erect

Oh Ibn Al-Walid.. Isn't it a sword that you rent? All our swords have become wood

Damascus, the treasure of my dreams and my fan, do I complain about Arabism, or do I complain about Arabs to you?

The whips of June bled their backs, so they became addicted to it.. They were the worst of those who beat them

And they looked at the history books.. and were convinced when were the guns inhabiting the books?

They watered Palestine with colorful dreams and fed it with absurd rhetoric and rhetoric

And they left Jerusalem on top of the mud, naked, allowing glory to be given to whomever they desire.

Is there a written document from Palestine that will reassure me about who I wrote to.. which they did not write?

And about lemon groves, and about a dream that gets farther away from me..the closer they get

O Palestine.. Who will give you a lily? Who will restore the house that was ruined?

I strayed on the pavement of tears looking for tenderness, but I did not find a father..

My phone... you will find us in our vices... who worship sex, or who worship gold

So one blinded his insight, so he bowed down and gave the seducers everything they earned.

And one in the oil seas, bathing, has fitted a burlap dress, and wears reeds.

And one narcissistic in his bed and one of the blood of the free have drunk

If those who slaughtered history are related to the ages... then I reject lineage

O Sham, O Sham, there is no joy in my heart I ask forgiveness for poetry to beg for joy

What will I read from my poetry and literature? Horse hooves trample our literature

And besieged us.. and harmed us.. no pen spoke the truth except that it was assassinated or crucified

O you who admonish a slaughtered person for his blood and his artery bled, how easy it is to blame

He who tried cauterization does not forget his pains, and he who saw poison does not feel miserable, as if he drank

The rope of bereavement is wrapped around my neck. Who is to blame if they are hanging?

Poetry is not doves that we fly towards the sky, nor is it a flute.. and the wind of youth

But it is anger whose nails are as cowardly as poetry if it does not ride anger