Love?

 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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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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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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