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The earth belongs to the one who walks on its shoulders,
Embracing his solitude,
Feeding its fertile mouth,
And drawing upon its face a garden,
Within his palms dwells trees,
thate are all the languages of the world.
The earth belongs to the one who sits in the shade,
Devining that the palm tree is adorned with the robe of a prophet,
And to the one who goes out at dawn,
Searching for a star that fled yesterday evening,
From a twilight that wronged him without a care.
The earth is a song,
That only overflows with birds at the shrine of a martyr,
Who left the tent to drink from the water of the battle,
When he sensed a wind carrying Tatars
In it are the traits of the stone standing in the heat,
The desert's lote tree accustomed to fearing it.
I say to you:
The earth is ours,
And so it has always been,
Not for anyone else.
A woman passed by a makeup store.
The makeup saw her
Then he secretly asked the god for forgiveness three times
After that he went back to sleep the shelf.
That beautiful shirt hanging
Above the face of the wall
Has the right to rebuke his collar
If it seizes the opportunity of the night
And goes too far in elegance
To the point of obvious exaggeration.
And I said:
"For which sky do my suns travel
And convince the sea in my palms to be level?
Is there a sheikh in the tribe
of noble character
Who will exempt my mirrors from the whims of horses?"
Today I should scoop the mud
Under the old shadows
I have come to desire to be a neighbor of the lakes
To throw on the edge of the water a fertile project
To open one day in the face of our visions
Its high windows,
If one day I returned to the sea I will bless it
And sew a shirt of the beginning in his hands
Extend its waves with the dignified screams
To become later able to be
As it is
And not afraid if It wear bright shells on a holiday day...
_____
The cat ran secretly
To the public street
Saw a bus swaying
In arrogance
(...)
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The sun escapes from the daytime tiredness
To fall asleep in the night bed
And at the dawn
The day wakes up
To embrace it
And take it for its new journey.
For the wind
I will open my window
I am not inclining to the right side
There is a cough
A loss
As for the left side
I will remain waiting there
Under the green hope tree.
It is enough for the water
To be a victim
Of the murderous grass,
And for this later
To remain a stranger
On the Machiavelli's table.
When The Time Slept On My Hand
The asphalt forgot the roses advent
He threw the guise of orphanhood on the ground,
And from the night water
It started watering the passers-by's eyeballs.
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When the time slept on my hand
The memory was frozen,
Then the presence and the absence became equal
In the view of the eye sail.
Today
I read a newspaper,
In it was half a column,
On a people starving and dying,
The rest of it was :
Photos,
Crossword puzzle,
And faded letters.
I have some questions for the members of this frorum about the poetry as an art,these are:
- Does the large number of the poets mean that the poetry is?
- why does many write the poetry meanwhile dosn't pay any attention to write another genres?
- Is that a sign of the prosperity of this genre or a sign of a crisis in it?
thanks for all.
Mustapha
