مدونة الشاعر المصرى عبداللطيف مبارك

Probability The wheat stalks breathe you in, Braid your letters for the evenings. And stir your songs the day they met Upon his face, the silence… the flock of stillness. Depart to where we began our journey, Indeed, the streams hold but fragments. To a time squandered, Forgive my death when I choose you, To the mercy of the devout, in protest, To the dwelling of the wound, The distance of desolation. And your endurance was to borrow From the star, the day of collapse’s rituals. Within you, the debasement of poems eludes, Towards the sunrise. And you quiet above some plains The languages of apprehension, In your sailing times. You soothe the blaze of solitude… cities, And pour into the eye the tears of reunion, Branches from the beginning we were, For the land of severance. We carry to it the beseeching letters, To write in love, The beloved’s spinning song. And you still swear by the earthquake, So as to prepare a new homeland, Which the questions lost in their lament, And...