On a train station that fell off the map

Grass, dry air, thorns, and cactus
On iron wire. There is the shape of the thing
In the absurdity of the formless, it chews its shadow…
There is a documented nothingness… and it is surrounded by its opposite
Two doves flying
On the roof of an abandoned room at the station
The station is like a tattoo melted into the body of the place
There are also two sarongs as thin as long needles
They embroider a lemon yellow cloud
There is a tourist filming two scenes:
The first, the sun that spread out on the sea bed
Second, the wooden seat was empty of the traveler’s bag
(Heavenly gold becomes bored with its hardness.)
I stood at the station…not to wait for the train
Nor my emotions hidden in the aesthetics of something far away,
Rather, to know how the sea became mad and the place was broken
Like a ceramic stone, and when I was born and where I lived,
How did birds migrate to the south or north?
Is what remains of me still enough for the light imagination to triumph?
On the corruption of realism? Is my deer still pregnant?
(We have grown. How much we have grown, and the road to heaven is long)
The train was moving like a gentle snake
The Levant to Egypt. It was his whistle
He hides the hoarse bleating of goats from the greed of wolves.
It’s like a mythical time to train wolves in our friendship.
Its smoke rose above the fires of the blossoming villages
Rising from nature are like shrubs.

(Life is self-evident. Our homes, like our hearts, have open doors.) We were kind and naive. We said: The country is our country
The heart of the map will not be affected by any external disease.
Heaven is generous to us, and we do not speak classical Arabic together
Except occasionally: during prayer times, and on Laylat al-Qadr.
Our present amuses us: we live together, and our past amuses us:
If you need me, I will come back. We were kind and dreamy
We did not see tomorrow stealing the past… its prey, and leaving
(Our present person was raising wheat and pumpkins a while ago.
And the valley dances)
I stood at the station in the sunset: Isn’t it still?
There are two women in A woman who shines her thigh with lightning?
Two legends – two enemies – two friends, and twins
On wind surfaces. Someone is flirting with me. And a second
Are you fighting me? Does shed blood break a sword?
One to say: My first god is with me?
(I believed my old song to belie my reality)
The train was a land ship that docked… and carried us
To realistic fantasy cities whenever we need to
Innocent playing with fate. For windows on the train
The place of the magical in the ordinary: it runs through everything.
Trees, thoughts, waves and towers run
She runs after us. And lemon scents running around. And the air
And all other things are running, longing for the far away
Mysterious, and the heart running.
(Everything was different and similar)
I stood at the station. I was as deserted as a guard’s room
Times at that station. I was plundered
On his lockers and asks himself: Was it that?
Mind/that treasure of mine? Was this
Lapis lazuli soaked with moisture and night dew for me?
Was I ever a student of the butterfly?
In fragility and boldness at times, and its colleague in
Metaphor sometimes? Have you ever been?
for me? Does my memory get sick and have a fever?
I see my mark on a stone, so I think it is my moon.)
And I recite while standing)
Another shot and I destroy my memories of standing
On the station. I don’t like this grass now,
This dry, forgotten land, this absurd despair,
He writes a biography of oblivion in this mercurial place.
I do not like chrysanthemums on the graves of the prophets.
I do not like to save myself metaphorically, even if it wanted me to
The violin is to be an echo of myself. I only love
Returning to my life, so that my ending can be a narrative of my beginning
. (Like the sound of bells, here time is broken)
I stood at sixty from my wound. I stood on
The station, neither to wait for the train nor the cheers of the returnees
From the south to Sanabel, and even to protect the coast
Olives and lemons in the history of my map. Is this…
All this for absence and what remains of the crumbs of the unseen for me?
Did my ghost pass by me, wave from afar, and disappear?
I asked him: Every time a stranger smiles at us and greets us, do we slaughter a deer for the stranger?
(The echo fell from me like a pine cone)
Nothing guides me except my intuition.
Two wandering doves lay white letters of exile on my shoulders,
Then they fly at a pale height. Tamerla is a tourist
And you ask me: Can I photograph you out of respect for the truth?
I said: What is the meaning? She said to me: Can I take a picture of you?
An extension of nature? I said: It is possible.. Everything is possible.
Good evening, my uncle, and leave me now so I can be alone
Death…and myself!