بقلم: ÈåÌÊ ÚÈÇÓ -
25-11-2014
Úä ÇáÅäßáíÒíÉ
ãä íÏÑí ãÇ ÇáÐí íÌÑí Úáì ÇáÌÇäÈ ÇáÂÎÑ ãä ßáø ÓÇÚÉ ¿
ßã ãÑøÉò ßÇä ÔÑæÞ ÇáÔãÓ åäÇß ¡ ÎáÝ ÌÈá!
ßã ãÜÑøÉò ßÇä ÇáÛíã ÇáãÏåÔ ÇáãÊÑÇßã ÈÚíÏÇð ÚÇáíÇð ¡
ÌÓãÇð ÐåÈíÇð ããÊáÆÇð ÑÚÜÏÇð !
åÐå ÇáæÑÏÉ ßÇäÊ ÓãøÇð .
ÐÇß ÇáÓíÝ ÃÚØì ÍíÜÇÉð .
ßäÊõ ãÝÜßøöÜÑÇð Ýí ãóÜÑÌò ãõÜÒåöÜÑò Ýí äåÇíÉ ÇáØÑíÞ ¡
ææÌÏÊõ äÝÓí Ýí ÇáæÍÜá .
ßäÊõ ÃÝßøöÜÑ Ýí ÚÙãÉ ãÇ ßÇä ÈÔÑÇð ¡
ææÌÏÊ äÝÓí Ýí ÚÇáã ÇáßåäÜæÊ .
–
Who Knows What Is Going On
Who knows what is going on on the other side of each hour?
How many times the sunrise was
there, behind a mountain!
How many times the brilliant cloud piling up far off
was already a golden body full of thunder!
This rose was poison.
That sword gave life.
I was thinking of a flowery meadow
at the end of a road,
and found myself in the slough.
I was thinking of the greatness of what was human,
and found myself in the divine.
