Don’t shoot!

Wait Sir  ! Don’t shoot !

I need to comb my tousled  hair,

And wash my stainy face.

Oh !There is a hole in my shoe too

Wait sir  ! I won’t be late ,

I am going to wear my father’s shoes,

They are as big as the  gracious sky

But they fit because I walk like him,

My grand mother told me once .

Have you ever flown a paper plane,Sir ?

There is a hole in my paper plane,

Like the hole in my father’s skull .

Wait Sir, don’t shoot !

There  on that lonely  hill ,

I saw a  flower  this morning,

Do you think my mother will forgive me for

My dishelved clothes?

I didn’t know you’re coming for me .

oh !  I found a flower for your mother  too!

You need to hurry up before  it fades

Sir ,why are your eyes full of tears  ?

Written by arabian roses

 

 

ثورة عشق

.تعاتبني اذا غضبت ولا تفهم ان الرعد يدمدم اشتياقا للمطر

تقف وسط الفوضى التي رسمتها في محرابك  مشدوها

كراهب يقرا رسائل حب لاول مرة

تقرا جنوني في قلم الشفاه المكسر وقارورة العطر المراق

.ولاتفهم سطور حنيني فيها

.هذا ليس جنونا بل ثورة عشق يحتضر في دفتر يومياتك

by arabian roses

Yesss my poem ‘The Storyteller’ has been published on the Voices Project

http://www.thevoicesproject.org/poetry-library/the-storyteller-by-sihem-hammouda

 

A Fighter without arrow dedicated to Marius Mocanu

…Then they lived happily ever after.

Nay, it is neither a folktale an old sailor

Could tell to kindle the flame of adventure

       In the soul of a retired ship dimmed,

Nor a sealed love letter

From an enchantress  to a hermit.

It’s an epic about an ordinary man,

Whose  name will be chanted in battlefields

When fearless soldiers are vanquished by fear.

 Before his exploits, invincible Hercules,

And grand Hannibal would bow in awe,

For unconquerable foes they fought

But inevitable fate he tamed.

It’s an epic about an ordinary man

Who taught fallen heroes that

  Hardship is his majesty’s gift

To strong souls for only

A strong soul could bear hardship

And   when a gift is taken from you

Dig for unnoticed blessing deep in you .

Written by arabian roses

 

 

 

 

Do you love her ?

He happened to turn around,

To see her teasing  the drunk ground,

With her  bare toes like a spoiled child.

She turned to him , and his oriental  eyes

Embraced hers as

 An expatriate embracing  an old letter

Smelt of  his torn  homeland.

“Do you love her? ” She asked.

“Who?” He said

“The rain.” She answered.

“Yes  I do” He smiled.

“Who do you love more ?Me or her?” She asked.

He smiled  affectionately at her,

“Are you jealous of the rain?”He asked .

“The rain is a woman ,isn’t she?” She said.

“Yes it is.For that I love her.

Her  dormant  revolt is enkindled

By a rain drop breaking gracefully along his lips

Then travels secretly to his  covert cities.

She averted her dewy eyes,

Black pearls falling down

Her soft burning cheeks.

He approached her laughing and saying:

You are  jealous of  the rain aren’t you ?

I  love her because she resembles you

You are the rain  and she is you .”

Written by arabian roses

She and Majnoun Leila

When  night falls and his madness is allayed ,

 Towards the deserted poems she slips away.

 His French coat asks about her unknown destination,

Whenever she travels by a French painting.

And her silver earring asks the cold floor,

About a lost beloved with a feverish  longing,

While she goes on searching

In the forgotten  verses,

For an old  name  reminiscent of his name

Or a woman that resembles her

But the old poems tell her

That Majnoun Leila  is reproaching

His insanity  for she is the most  insane of all

For a beloved has nothing but his insanity

As a  sincere proof of  his eshq.

Written by arabian roses

-Majnun Layla (Arabic: مجنون لیلی‎ Majnun Layla, “Possessed by madness for Layla”) also referred to as (Persian: لیلی و مجنون‎ Leyli o Majnun, “The Madman and Layla” in Persian) is a love story that originated as a short, anecdotal poem in ancient Arabia, later significantly expanded and popularized in a literary adaptation by the Iranian poet Nizami Ganjavi who also wrote Khosrow and Shirin. It is the third of his five long narrative poems, Khamsa (the Quintet).

-ʻIshq is an Arabic word used in Arabic as well as many other languages. (Arabic: عشق‎; in Persian: eshgh; in Urdu: ‎ ishq; in Dari: eshq; in Pashto: eshq; in Turkish: aşk and in Azerbaijani: eşq), means “love”.

Your Love Kept me Alive

It’s the love for a childless land that kept a farmer alive.

It’s the love for honor that kept a wounded soldier alive.

It’s the love for health that kept the sick alive.

It’s the love for challenge that kept a mountaineer alive.

It’s the love for hope that kept the unfortunate alive.

Life has many crowns ,but they are all adorned with  precious  love.

Written by arabian roses.