Articles

THE OASIS IS CALLING US

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"I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too!"  ― William Wordsworth   On the left side, there was a middle-aged man, sitting next to some reddish sacks filled to the brim with pyramids of dried apricots. He was clicking a silver coin near a magnificent fountain that used to play with energetic cadences and wonderful rhythms. It used to be the symbol of the souk. It was a pillar from the glorious past and an emblem of prosperity but now numbness found its way all over it while the torrid heat circled around its marble floor, getting yellowish. The seller's swollen tongue was mixed with an insatiable thirst. He felt lost as if he was in a scorched-brown desert that sowed a pan of emptiness, a coliseum of death. The grilled and blasted smell of the sun tiptoed so closely to his face. His lungs were huffing and as he averted his eyes to the oasis to recall the awe-inspiring images of the past, lamentations seemed to feast on his brain cells. The oasis looked like a...
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Love?

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  Love is a universal language torn by myths and poems. Lovers and prisoners lived on its sidelines, and existence centered around it, and empires fell for it. So I look into your eyes to write a new page in the books of love and the wine of life. I look. I never squint. I gaze.
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I was there

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With a pool of mystic eyes, With an avalanche of hope, It could make a sea-farer blind, It could stab the shore.   It was a non-profit glimpse, It was a leap onward, the breeze smoothed the cheeks and the dawn watered the miles.   As a fire place, I reckon. As a red vase, I stand.  
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Unbearable Sun

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The burning sun, peeling off the skin of mankind, removing what is kind and unkind. It is flexing each muscle on us...barbecuing us, tormenting us, leaving us forlorn and forsaken. In a basin sea of shimmering swelters I found the rest of my skin bawling. I am mummified, entombed and crucified against the unbearable sun. I can't breathe, I can't go on, I am perplexed. I am lost amidst the flames of fire, I am accumulating water drops to mar the murky asphalt, it is like me, it is inside me. I am not me and it is not it.
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The Street

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 The document under analysis is a contemporary photograph. There is a middle-aged woman who is wearing a green jacket, a multi-colored plain-woven foulard, white earrings and a bracelet in her left hand. She is leaning her left hand on a tattered blue bar which creates a barrier between her and the figure she is trying to paint. Her eyes are goggled at the wall while her right hand is carrying a paint brush between her thumb and index finger. She is trying to paint a male figure. The skin of the foregoing figure is dark and yellow. He averted his eyes and to some extent he gives a stilted gaze. Next to the male figure we can see a couple of white flowers placed at the left corner.         We can interpret the aforementioned photograph in a multiplicity of ways. The colors used in the photograph represent a sense of serenity and harmony. The blue bar and some of the white scratches on it mark the periodic rise and fall of the sea level which reflects upon th...
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Unremembered

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My skin is plastic. he beclouds me, Shot by his cross-bow. I am mummified. Entombed by fragrant shroud, sweet-scented each night. I am molded and crowned by his mud and blood. Each time I revolve. The shimmering light, crawls to my eyes. Marred by his shape. The emerald grass, scatter along the epitaph. It howls at the undertaker. Shielded by the fading voices. I absorb each echo, with a pool of mystic eyes. Worms feast on my breasts. My head a home for the cries, a phalanx with swords. I lay down forlorn, a dehydrated corpse. Sautéed before the dawn. Dethroned by him, scrubbed by his eyes. The water was salty. A naked incubus. he mutes me, yet I shriek again. I hear his prayer, scratching my veins. I remedy myself. Only for his skin, to beautify its wrinkles, against the clammy air. Tomorrow shall visit, with no appointment. Welcomed by I. So the shroud shall be, a banner of gleam, Over the dark swamp.
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Chronos

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A: I don't have a Calender. B: What a jaded and tarnished view.! A: I might come tomorrow. B: Tomorrow won't come tomorrow. A: Maybe today. B: Maybe yesterday. A: I don't know. B: What is tomorrow if it is not a present procrastinated or a past that didn't catch the train of midnight.? A: I have lost my ticket.
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