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the birds who quit flying

on October 20, 2023

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I will lay in the river
where the birds
who quit flying gather
to touch the water
and greet the little
coloured
fish.

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no one to blame

I cry I weep and there is no one to blame there is no one to blame I know there is no one to blame. I weep and there is no one to blame I look up at the white plastered ceiling I speak to it Through it "Take it away Please." There is no one to blame My mother was sad My father was hurt My grandfather too His mother as well There is no one to blame I carry it I weep I love them all and I weep There is no one to blame Then I meet this adaptation of them I’m hurt I cry I weep He is not to blame He is playing his role so gracefully -oh so gracefully- and forgetfully as we had agreed as he had promised He is not to blame I chose him I To cleanse To cry and weep And to forgive them all.

home

Home is yellow, and light, vast, yet everyone gathers too close sharing almost one warm breath. and so, it all shrinks to a few blankets, and a window, one cypress tree, a few green tiles and a whistling kettle. Home is where we suffocate with laughter, where we feel okay – that everything will be okay, while the world breaks outside the kettle is louder, and the laughter a shield.

we move

three years later a bunch of mabrouks as if it's a success just like a success cost sweat, tears, and a whole lot of investing the celebratory moment is a sad consequence yet we move is a thin timid root growing? or a happy baby bourgeon blooming? does the bourgeon need a root?

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the birds who quit flying

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