Short sad poems

From the poem Fires of Sadness in my Heart, renewed by the poet Al-Lawah

The fires of sadness in my heart renewed

Waqf tears in the cheeks Tkhdad

I sigh after another escalated

My soul almost goes up to the gills

And I have an eyeball of thanks and a tortured body

My heart is like that from the bliss of sadness

My ribs almost gave a sigh

And my end with the ends of the stars is paved

If the paper cried cooing, I am

To cry, Aba Al-Kharsin, I do not refute

From the poem "The Flower of Sorrow" by the poet Qasim Haddad

These runaway eyes and the wound that laughs

Illiterate

This loin tired of sadness and cold

The other side and me

She is my mother

This Snowy Foden

Who turned this night into a singing lamp

Oh my mom

You gave me a voice that tastes like millions

that walks to the sun and builds

You were a bird in your chest

The fire threw him, called him a green hand

Behold your fiery bird in prison singing

You are the runaway eyes and the wound that laughs

From the poem of sadness by the poet Nizar Qabbani

Your love taught me to grieve

And I've been needing it for ages

For a woman who makes me sad

For a woman I cry in her arms

like a sparrow..

For a woman.. collect my parts

Fragments of broken crystal

Your love brought me in.. my lady

Cities of Sorrows

And I did not enter before you

Cities of Sorrows

I never knew

That tear is human

That man is without sorrow

human memory

A poem I advise you to be sad, I do not recommend you to be flogged by the poet Abu Firas Al-Hamdani

I advise you to be sad, I do not recommend you to flog

Gel infected with violence, and Alfend

I order you to suffice with consolation

About good missing, oh good missed

It is the sad that she lost what she possessed

Including the eyelids, so don't get dirty on anyone

I like your sadness and anxiety

I sought refuge in Seir, but I could not find it

I did not diminish my sadness after you

It is consolation near and far

to join you in the battle if you blink,

As your company in bliss, and raghad

I cry with tears, to him from my grief extended,

And rest to patience without extension

I never make myself happy

I have known who received it from cmd

And sleep prevents me from falling asleep

Note that you are suspended

O Farda, he is crying, he has no helper,

May God help you with submission and flogging

This remaining prisoner has no redemption.

May the soul, the family, and the child help you

A poem half full of grief by the poet Qassim Haddad

Half of yesterday's grief was postponed

In order for the weight to be straightened in the prose of the poem

Half of it is enough to explain the surgeon

and erased it in the children's book

Full half

Sadness falls short of our poem

It is difficult to deny the victims

And inventing another reality that fulfills the bereaved rose

Our prose poem emerges from the borders of the arc

Who is able to estimate the rhythm of crying

As if people's grief is a third sea

Sad half

The rest is the sighs of the dead

And a choir of regretful and mourning

As if half of sadness is an incomplete verb

Postponement is not accepted.

A poem of sadness of rain by the poet Qassim Haddad

This winter who wears his gray coats

And he comes

Love it so much

But he brought to my heart the familiar sadness

I'm not gloomy, but I grieve

Because winter without all seasons

Makes you obsessed with Goga in my memory

Makes you my very memory

It is enough for the rain clock to strike

And wet the shoulder of the cell

For memories to explode

Memories that put you in my soul like a fierce glow

It explodes like the tears of a child who was left alone

And they went

And this year's winter will be even sadder

Not because you are still on the edge of the distances

And I'm on the other end

Not because ships don't sail in the desert

Not because the rain overwhelms me like eagerness

Not because the messages.

But because you will wait

One night washed with longing

And because I won't come

this winter

The poem "The Crown of Sorrow" by the poet Qasim Haddad

O crown of my sorrows

If your messages are delayed

I am more confident that it will

And when you are late

Waiting for her is beautiful

Like children when they are born

And when your messages are cut off from me

I fall into the many peaks of maturity of my expectations

I come close to believing

I am glad for your next message

He can kill me

So I keep waiting for my death.. with delicious greed

A poem, except for the usual sadness, returning to the poet Al-Farazdaq

Except for those who are used to sadness, I will return

And they came without the sharpshooters

How many of my brothers stay awake at night and do not sleep.

and independent of me from sleep lying

And what is the sun the light of the two easts when it appears,

but the light of the two easts is immortal

You will hear what she praises you if she meets you

On Hadramawt unbridled poems

Didn't you see Khaled's palm turned?

People have sustenance from many tributaries

And he had the blessed river, so he swam

Like the Zawabi, buttery crowds

What is like my palm Khaled when he buys

With all the cuteness, every praise and birth

Increase immortal like the one in his right hand

You will find it about Islam from the best of people

As if I fear no injustice, for Khaled

Dar al-Sham, or Samam al-Aswad

And I wish for an immortal to set me free,

and he calls me iron-heavy

He is the auspicious leader and the one who cares

people turn to him from every arrival

With him the darkness is revealed by the light of his countenance

with the light of a meteor whose light is not extinguished

Do you not mention kinship or lend me money?

You are created from a wide dream Majid

If my handcuffs relieved my anxiety, perhaps

The shooter of the most distant worries

Of the carriers, praise be to you, when it was revealed

humiliated and concealed to the appealer

Is there any son of Abdullah thankful for you?

It is known that you released the chained Hamed

And there is no calamity but every evening,

Every morning a non-returning visitor

The blacksmith says to me: Are you standing?

Am I only like the last one who is sitting?

Like I'm hot for him above his heels

Thirty handfuls of Malakid cherries

Or a debt visible above his leg,

They knew that there is no critic of my religion

Ali narrated poetry what I said

As a spear interceptor without a game