Poems by Moaen Shalabia
Wave is return
Why should I forgive, friends?
Does any one of you carry the morning baggage?
Does anyone who can read the catastrophe in my grief,
And participate in the death of the night the suffer of darkness,
Tearing an artery in the entrails of my time
There was a flower, which grows in my heart
There was a tulip, which grew in my soul
My life has gone… I wish it had not.
A child was growing in my heart,
She was fidgeting in the womb of sorrow… suffering
A female was in my soul
Painting the wings of the sun and the remains of a smile
But the arrows of those whom I love
Were shut, in morning, to my soul and… hit the target!
What should I do, friends?
Does any one of you carry the worries of our nation?
Does any one of you read the books of the sea,
And sip the remains of coal from the bottom of the cup?
The child says:
What should I do in order to turn me pregnant !?
What do I write, strangers?
Is there any one of you who can understand what I may write?
I might write all your sins
And hug my torments at noon
What should I do, my sweethearts?
Does any one of you know the taste of kissing
The salty wound on your breasts
Does any one of you know how the love will be
On the bridge of return?
Does any one of you know
How the soul goes around the tent?
Does any one of you know
The hunger of the heart, the passion of a suicide?
What should I do, my beloved ones?
It is a mirage.. a mirage
Continue your watery dreams
Continue the wife’s dream
Cause tomorrow you will hug these wave
Wave is return,
Wave is return.
The departure of the spirit
I saw you painting the dream
Between the fire and the night,
And moons above the night,
And grief behind the spirit,
And the color of grief likes the twilight.
I saw you carrying the sea in your eyes expatriate,
And plates of faith and disbelief,
I asked the sea if it know its carrier,
The sea replies waves of tiredness.
I saw you silent dumping the grief on your lips,
You do not ask now about my drowning.
You said: “yes”,
Why the river does not flow as we like,
We do not want to pass the love like leaves.
I saw you hugging the thorn,
And the thorn is wounding you
Then I said: enough
Of the thorn’s wounds and anxiety
You are incessantly behind my grief and in it
Can you stand the grief of departure?
I am exhausted with grief, I do not know
Whether the spirit leaving my body
Will obliterate this grief.
I assumed my friend
That reading poetry
Could be an amazement or a fancy or a whisper of fire
And I assumed my gorgeous
That writing poetry
Could be a thought or a vigor or a drive
And I assumed my love
Could be smoothness of touch or trembling astonishment
And I assumed my princess
That your savage embrace
Could be sin itself or a dose of amber
And I assumed that sadness my precious
Is a country like all the mirrors and all the seas
And I assumed my murderer, that death is wrapped
In all the aspects of coming of age, and it could fill the void
And I assumed that passion my inspirer, is a language
That comes swiftly without waiting
And I assumed that dreaming my mistress
Is an old obsession that never stops spinning
And that the soul and that the body my captivator
Is a flute in the tenderness of the day.
However, I have never assumed
That you leaving forever
Would terminate the place and end the time
And that my ascension into my abyss
Would be for love
Even if it was suicide.