You would be perfectly justified
in thinking, what nonsense is this,
for that is what which follows ought to feel.
Where can I start and how should I begin:
at the moment I was born or you, perhaps not,
humankind cannot see their coming lot!
Perhaps it was a recent thing,
when I first laid my eyes on your blessed face
outshining the green backdrop with its innocence,
simpler and yet more glorified than the earthly mounds!
Or may be, as it is said in so many texts
of Holy origin, that human fate
and destiny are more or less preordained,
so I’d end up saying this was determined,
long before the cosmos began to spread,
let alone earth, moon or the human race!
Perhaps I am nothing
but a Troubadour revived from his grave,
whose foiled heart still throbs in disgrace
of queen Hera’s will to settle down!
But as children of our circumstances,
as much as we are of our destinies,
despite future woes we succumb
to the lure of our present dreams,
so I confess, in your eyes I have seen
the ocean of my river’s wanderings.
And a river in spate I have been for too long
but now o fair soul, can I call your eyes my home?
*Mulhima is an Arabic word. It means "Muse".
It’s a small world, you said!
A world that might have been
large enough to unite with my beloved
but woe, the plague of borders and bayonets!
A weird time, undoubtedly,
when the governments and their polities
thrive on fear, conjured up by empty words
and a hatred for the presumed divergence!
Wish I had the means to ask for your hands,
a horse, a sail to leave this barren land!
Perhaps you would let me belong
to the corner you call your home,
near the mountain, decked with a forest, green,
where your cloud of hair is ruffled by the wind!
Still, with most of my numbered days already gone
what rights do I have on that heavy cloud,
streaked with golden rays from the sun,
woven from the same stuff as dreams?
Yet, since I have vowed not to leave
a single word unsaid, let me conclude by
pledging these humble words at your feet –
if I were Hades, would you be my Persephone?
I promise to keep the world unthawed
and the winter, running all year long!
I want your hand but wait!
What is that? Do I see
a muted fluttering in your heart?
That’s normal, you should know,
till you know what love truly is.
In the morning it burns,
just like an orange, rising sun
but you can always close your eyes
and revel in the warmth,
like the lush foliage of a tree!
In the gray, melancholic dust
of the evening hours,
when birds return to their empty bowers
and human engines throb
to shift their paradigms,
a single hair’s breadth would seem too far apart!
Then the last line of dialogue, often just implied,
in all our nightmares might become,
“That is not what I meant at all,
that is not it at all!”
So I say, alright, let it be,
how is this more painful than a forsaken dream?
After the batting eyelashes,
after the damp, unblinking gaze,
after the fleeting eyes
followed by a soundless and broken sigh,
should I then take her hands in mine?
After the caresses of the shivering touch,
after the exploring breaths’ thorough search
along her entire existence,
after Love’s unbound whispers till her land,
should I then lose her in the pouring grains of sand?