by saharanwilderness
I will stop looking for you,
waiting, yearning, trembling.
I will stop my heart thump
if it leaps for you.
I will snatch you out of my heart
like a broken knife
toss your memory
where I cannot see,
hear, touch you.
I will spill the blood that flows
cast the ashes of my burning wounds,
sprinkle them into the depths of nothingness
till my heart ceases to be.
And yet you’ll linger
in my mind
still.
Y. A- 2015
Be her lyre if she wants to drip honey and spice with her fingers
Be a perfume that embraces her body in passion and desire
Be an offering in her holy sanctuary
Be a wave that strokes her femininity
Be a man who drinks of her tenderness
Not a man against her who sucks her beauty.
كن انت قيثارتها ان ارادت ان تقطر بانمالها عسلا و طيبا
كن انت عطرا يلف جسدها عشقا و رغبة
كن انت قربانا في محراب قدسيتها
كن انت موجا يربت على أنوثتها
كن رجلا لها ينهل من رقتها
لا رجلا عليها يعتصر حلاوتها
ي.أ. – 2015
– by American poet Sarah Teasdale
(1884-1933)
I thought of you and how you love this beauty,
And walking up the long beach all alone
I heard the waves breaking in measured thunder
As you and I once heard their monotone.
Around me were the echoing dunes, beyond me
The cold and sparkling silver of the sea —
We two will pass through death and ages lengthen
Before you hear that sound again with me.
By English poet Rupert Brooke
[1887 – 1915]
In your arms was still delight,
Quiet as a street at night;
And thoughts of you, I do remember,
Were green leaves in a darkened chamber,
Were dark clouds in a moonless sky.
Love, in you, went passing by,
Penetrative, remote, and rare,
Like a bird in the wide air,
And, as the bird, it left no trace
In the heaven of your face.
In your stupidity I found
The sweet hush after a sweet sound.
All about you was the light
That dims the greying end of night;
Desire was the unrisen sun,
Joy the day not yet begun,
With tree whispering to tree,
Without wind, quietly.
Wisdom slept within your hair,
And Long-Suffering was there,
And, in the flowing of your dress,
Undiscerning Tenderness.
And when you thought, it seemed to me,
Infinitely, and like a sea,
About the slight world you had known
Your vast unsconsciousness was thrown . . .
O haven without wave or tide!
Silence, in which all songs have died!
Holy book, where hearts are still!
And home at length under the hill!
O mother quiet, breasts of peace,
Where love itself would faint and cease!
O infinite deep I never knew,
I would come back, come back to you,
Find you, as a pool unstirred,
Kneel down by you, and never a word,
Lay my head, and nothing said,
In your hands, ungarlanded;
And a long watch you would keep;
And I should sleep, and I should sleep!
By Irish poet William Butler Yeats
[1865 –1939] WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true; But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face. And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead, And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
saharan wilderness 