Self-taught

I can't promise to be calm,

dignified, and indifferent.

like a rock by the sea...

If my heart's going to break,

let it break from anger, grief, or joy.

― Nâzım Hikmet

love is out of fashion

poets have killed love they wrote so many things about it that no one believes them anymore i thinks it's very normal because true lovers suffer and remain silent.

اللون البرتقالي والغروب الحبل والانتحار الزجاج والجرح المحيط والغرق الخريف والوداع المرآة و أنا النوافذ و التحديق اليد والتلويح من بعيد الطريق ولقاء الصدفة

🎨 : Miaamanman1995

We are accused of terrorism

We are accused of terrorism If we dare to write about the remains of a homeland That is scattered in pieces and in decay In decadence and disarray About a homeland that is searching for a place And about a nation that no longer has a face

About a homeland that has nothing left of its great ancient verse But that of wailing and eulogy

About a homeland that has nothing in its horizons Of freedoms of different types and ideology

About a homeland that forbids us from buying a newspaper Or listen to anything About a homeland where all birds are always not allowed to sing About a homeland that out of horror, its writers are using invisible ink

About a homeland that resembles poetry in our country Improvised, imported, loose and of no boundaries Of foreign tongue and soul Detached from Man and Land, ignoring their plight as a whole

About a homeland to the negotiating table moves Without a dignity or shoes

About a homeland That no more has steadfast men With only women therein

Bitterness is in our mouthsin our talkin our eyes Will draught also plague our souls as a legacy passed to us from ancient times?

Our nation has nobody left, even the less glorified No one to say "NO" in the face of those who gave up our homebread and butter Turning our colorful history into a circus

We have not a single honest poem That has not lost its virginity in a ruler's Harem

We grew accustomed to humiliation Then what is left of Man If he is comfortable with that?

I search the books of history For men of greatness to deliver us from darkness To save our women from fires' brutality

I search for men of yesterday But all I find is frightened cats Fearing for their souls From the authority of rats

Are we hit by national blindness Or are we suffering from color blindness

We are accused of terrorism If we refuse to perish Under Israeli tyranny That is hampering our unity Our history Our Bible and our Quran Our prophets' land If that is our sin and crime Then terrorism is fine

We are accused of terrorism If we refuse to be wiped out By barbarians, the Mongols or the Jews If we choose to stone the fragile security council Which was sacked by the king of caesuras

We are accused of terrorism If we refuse to negotiate the wolf And reach out for a whore

America is fighting the cultures of Man Because it lacks one And against the civilizations because it needs one It is a gigantic structure but without a wall

We are accused of terrorism If we refuse current times Where America  the arrogant the mighty the rich Became a sworn interpreter of Hebrew.

-Nizar Qabbani

عندما أصابني سوء الحظ و بدأ الناس ينظرون إلي بازدراء بكيت على نفسي بمرارة وصليت لكن السماء لم تستجب لدعائي و لم تشفق علي , لذلك فقد صببت اللعنات على حظي تمنيت لو كنت شخصاً آخر يمتلك حظاً و أملاً أكبر و يمتلك الكثير من الأصدقاء تمنيت لو كانت عندي موهبة هذا و فرصة ذاك و في أقسى ساعات كراهيتي لنفسي خطرت لي, و عندها تغير حالي كما هي حال القبرة التي تشدو في الصباح أغاني تصل إلى بوابة السماء- لأن التفكير بك يجعلني غنياً جداً إلى درجة أنني أرفض أن أتبادل الأدوار حتى مع الملوك

-شيكسبير

Kırık bir kütük olduğunu bildiğin sürece, neden her seferinde ona yaslanıyorsun?

| Aron Wiesenfeld

This sea is mine

What was mine: my yesterday. What will be mine: the distant tomorrow, and the return of the wandering soul as if nothing had happened. A slight cut in the arm of the absurd present, History mocks its victims and its heroes, It glances at them in passing and goes on. So i tell you ; This sea is mine. The fresh air is mine. And my name, though i mispronounce it over the grave, is mine. As for me, filled with every reason to departure, I am not mine. I am not mine. I am not mine.

| Mahmoud Darwish

Divide me with fatigue,

for I need a sore chest to cry on. Like you, I have something made of glass, and the chests of those who are comfortable, are made of marble. Return to my world so that I may rest, for I love you even when I’m tired.

"Onu ölesiye seviyor musun?" diye sordular.

"Mezarımda ondan bahset ve beni nasıl hayata döndürdüğünü izle" dedim.

- Mahmoud Darwish