Wednesday, November 1, 2017




If only he  …..
Was a poet tromping the words  .
and between his arms clutters stutters  ,
fall in the deep of the absence
his fingers was wet as a night on the lips place  ….
Usually  …..
He was relieving the moon if he sweats in the whiteness  ,
Than the sun stumbles  in the braids reveal  ,
He was every night inventing for the sky two lips ,
to kiss doves   ….
While  …..
His dreams as a unseen needle sews  ,
two mustaches in the trope  ,
so far with pelican mummified in the rivers of the distance  ;
as he is   …..
a butterfly wets her wings with the call
doesn’t care if the sun raised in the maze night  ,
like this  ;
he washes the argil the letters of the poem  ,
and wets the salt hanged in the mouth of the wave  ,
running away from his face  ….
So that doesn’t injure the wind  .
He was everlasting the bewilderment   ….
Roving as a sun nipples   …..
Hollowing as an emergent sadness  .
With a poem continues in the ache  ,
Usually  ....
He raves and says with a voice
returning from a long travel  .
O  …..  lovers crowned of me  .
Slave like a poem fingers  ,
come to me satisfied  ,
And enter in my dispersion  ,
dissolve in my blood    ……
and he shuts up .


The cloud has a balcony overlooking the wind  .
Imagine that the earth were sterile .
So it would not give birth to the probabilities of the beginning  .
I play with the Sassoon in my fingers when you come  ;
before the cloud by half rose  .
I came like the dichotomy of the dream in the range face ,
but I explode your kiss , to make a cigarette from the clay .
And from the twilight passing on your cheek, a last colors brush  ,
in the hope of shutting down all the exists to the dream  .
Then I comb my fingers to stay alone  .
I arrange my tears according to my will  .

Indeed, I didn’t cry, but the color of your eyes has another story  .
The language got old, and the berry’s leaves have left  .
I was sad , but I didn’t peel the wind between your hands  .
As if I wrote a poem and wore the tears  .
So, when would poems and women leave me   ?
I  ,
I have a tent in the question’s roots  .
And a pub in its face that is patronized by lovers  .
I have a winter on the beach of her eyes  ,
waiting for me, and other things  .
I left my face on the carpet, and fell asleep like a strange night  .
I wished then to die, and leave a speech to the coming storm ,
as  an arrogant wound ,
or a night without questions .
I haven’t committed an affront in the tradition of lovers  .
But bunches have silent moments  .
I was yelling  ;
and berating the wind when I found you in the stones’ books  ,
a tyrannical star in the sky  .
So let me rub your perfume with the clay of my eagerness  .
I was improvising to reduce the absence  ;
who had poured the sad night into your eyes  ?
So, the stars seemed sad since the god dawn  .
I was like that  ..
Kindling the wind with laughs and cry  …


While you resist your beautiful laugh  ,
think well in the wide silence    ….
In the loose shirt of the unknown as my dreams  .
Write something   …
Or practice the narcissism of whiteness  .
In the legend of the beautiful text  ….
Please don’t let the smell of the cigarette leave the place language  ;
but before you limp to the sky , think well   ..
because , I’m used to the absence  ;
your panting face behind the whiteness  ;
help me with a love sonnet to trim my poems and that’s enough ,
every night letters ask me   :
where have I lost my words   ??
tell him  ….   :
you are an apple stolen from the coat of  Eve  ;
if a beautiful dream surprised you
I will give it my wings  ….
to get out from the injured white poetry  ,
so give me your hands to dream  ,
I’ m still luring the beloved songs to wear you  .
You were together running and sweating in the future glass ,
we were milking the moon together ,
and in the memory there is a rose and a pen  ;
the tree is a woman feeds her brushes with anthem
drops to fill the questions  ,
then she stays to tell the story to the passengers
about how doves are dead   ….
come on , and light the speech oil  ,
because you are the probability of the coming hour  ,
to make the ears  sleep on the wind pillow   ….
The nipples of the sun are elegant this morning  ,
Dribbling grapes, and injure the tree    …..
I was like someone sits on the wind borders ,
waiting a cloud  , and then cries   ….
and me finally , I draw a wound on the water  ;
to walk alone proudly in the path of the story  ,
your bare voice surmounted in front of the ruin   …
But , I fear losing my poems in your loneliness  .
So wait for me ….
I will come back before the whiteness by two nights and a kiss ,
so give me your lips; to sleep  …..


FETHI SASSI: He was born on the 1st of June 1962 in Nabul  ( Tunisia ) . He is a writer of prose poetry and short poems and haiku; translator of all his poems to English. A member in the Tunisian Writers' Union; and in the Literature club at the cultural center of Sousse. His first book entitled "A Seed of Love" was published in 2010. Second) I dream …. and I sign on birds the last words ) in 2013 . The third book of poetry  “A sky for a strange bird“ in Egypt in 2016. The Forth published in Egypt in march 2017 (As lonely rose a chair. His first translated and published book in Canada  2017  (And you are the entire poem) Under print a translated French book in France for the third Arabic Book ( Ciel d’un oiseau étranger ) .

No comments :

Post a Comment