Angel

خطواتنا كانت خفيفة, تدق الارض  المشققة فى استحياء علها لا تغضب علينا .علها تخرج من تلك الشقوق حدثاً يبتلعنا .حدثاً يملأ الايام. حدث كفيل إذا ذكر امام اطفال المدرسة ان يجعل اعينهم الصغيرة تشع نورا يملأ غرفهم المظلمة بالخيالات الحية.حدث يجعلنا نصادق التاريخ. التاريخ ها هنا قابع فى كل منا: فى ملامحه , فى صوته ,ياتى فى شكل ذكريات تصحبها النشوة تارة, و تارة اخرى يلتف حول قلوب المنسيين ,يؤلمهم, يذكرهم بمن رحلوا و تركوا لهم اليالى فارغة تخيم على نجومها التساؤلات الحزينة و الامانى البائسة. نجلس قرب النهر ,نتسامر, حتى تغشى الظلمة العالم ,حتى تغط العصافير فى ثباتها الليلى و نسمع البوم . تبداين فى طرح الاسئلة و اعجز انا عن الرد . لما تحن تلك السماء وجدنا؟ لما اختاروا اسامينا؟ لما احب الكرز و تحبين الورود؟ لما ولدنا فى الاصل؟ لما؟ لما؟ ...لما لا اراه كل يوم؟ لما لا اتاكد ان كان يحبنى ؟ ماذا لو كان جحيمه حقيقة ؟ ااصلاها ؟ااصبح حطبها ؟ ايصبح قلبى السكران بحبه و حبك مع اللصوص و الكذابين؟ لم اكذب على نفسي يوم, فلم اكذب عليه. الله هو نفسي و لكن نفسي ليست الله . الصلاة ان صحت على جسدى فل...

For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfill themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, ...

I had a sea at room that reached the middle of my pink chapped walls. It had dead fish, the corpses of a few people that dropped out of my consciousness along the way and floating letters going each and every way with every wave that crashes from a wall to another. It had a window that showed me nothing. It had a broken window that was only good at making creaking noises on a silent night to let me know that I am still alive. I had a mother. I had a father. I had a lover, that all took different ships and sailed away from me. I had visions of the virgin marry feeding little Jesus. I had visions of her laughing. Of her , with her head between her hands, thinking of how she would face the world with her little miracle. I had visions of her eyes trying to hide the pride of when her son spoke in his cradling of her teary eyes and wet face when seeing her boy getting crucified for nothing but speaking the truth for serving his creator and hers. The sun visits to greet the sea...