My land my pain and me

Hiding behind the theory of mirth is my pain,
Lying prostrate before death’s agonizing smile;
The smile, my eyes often fail to see;
And I keep hovering over versions of me

Me is a cold, old metaphor of rain,
A dead alley for the harking pebble,
A smoking fog off the King’s bloody hand
Around the dainty neck of my homeland

As I look at her beauteous gritty nose,
The walking smile wades through to her eyes;
She fixes me, unseeing: looking yonder through me;
Her arcane pain serenely solidifies into tears

As you jovially pass away through me,
I wonder who your tears shall atone,
Who shall sniff the miasma of your metaphors,
Inter your dead letters, your speaking eyes?

The King’s specious power is thee worked;
The writer’s impetus is thee caught;
The child’s life is on thee dependent;
…
The tremors of the dying body
Wriggle free out of my soul
Every instant sloughs off into spleen;
And I becomes wife, mother, king and queen

waw khaled! You expressed your self easily and you do know your way around the words.
Despite of the pain..Loved it..loved it..loved

waw khaled! You expressed your self easily and you do know your way around the words.
Despite of the pain..Loved it..loved it..loved

شكراً لك أخي ماهر يونس..سعيدٌ أنها نالت إعجابك وتقديرك...قد تكون الكتابة نتيجة للألم..
تحياتي