My dream, that which is born in every season, that does not die, that if it shines, the bird carries its bed-sticks to its room, which it truly knows, which does not know itself, which has age for all ages, which has beauty, the genius of poetry, and which has pain the energy of contentment to live under writing cap.
My dream, which I read in a book, then I saw it on the cinema screen, and then I remembered that it was floating with me, on a plank of wood, in the flood. Which I had never wished for, and I emigrated and met it in the night.
The one who I realized, after long incense, that it is only mine to dream, and that there is no share, so I resorted it, to escape from my impossible dream, to the writing vault.
Everyone left me: everyone left, they all left, looking for in books, in cinemas, in the alleys, and in the hollows of the world. Poets fly in the air. Sufis permeate the pores of danger towards the absolute. Prophets in wells, in prairies, on crosses, and in seclusion caves.
They all dispersed in search of you in all directions, in time, alone, alone you, alone, with the beauty of the thunderbolt, with all your reckless desire, with all your power and strength, with full fragility, and wide limits, alone. Ah alone, alone, you stayed with me..
I think of you free, like a torch of fire that draws its shape according to its whim, unconcerned with the orders of the wind, or the fluctuations of the mood of the storm, and I have mastered the game: the game of being torn, like maps that do not care to control the fears of earthquakes. The lava is my sorrow, and it stains this language, which will never be occupied by invaders. My dream: my treasure, which is beauty, a soul.
I embraced my dream as a religion that has no prophet, in which there is no punishment or reward, to the extent that I accept my fate to be snatched like a meteor, to eat on my way to the pilgrimage to a planet that has no orbit, no name, and the maps do not know it.
I celebrate with my dream as a wound that can only be healed by embracing it as a principle of transcendence, and possessing it was a very simple matter, but I was satisfied to win the prize of loss, because the poem would lose its elegance if I gave up my pain, so cut the darkness, without the light of a lantern or lit, without knowing anything about my religion and my disbelief are satisfied with what is in the heart of the lightning, and what is in my eyes of the brightness.
Oh my happiness, I find myself happy day after day with this pearl, the pearl of solitude or the solitude of the pearl, even though the fountain: the fountain of my tears, still digging its course on the cheek of the world..
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