Monday, November 1, 2021





Blind Time


Nothing new for today

 Vendors of full of coffins' newspapers

Are still in the normal mood

That accompanied them since they were born

In these countries

That god forgot on the map

Poets still pretend to have wisdom,

So as not to disappoint vanity

They still foretell life and death,

End and Salvation

At the same time


As they always did

Still copulate our dreams

With sticks made from our ribs,

And their stinking butts

Like the smell of gunpowder that emit from their mouths

And pour on our children 'bodies

Are still expanding until they become the size of the country

As for the dead

They are still reproducing

With enthusiasm of lovers

Who were born

in a blind time


This Poem Won The First Prize Of Charles Baudelaire International Award In Italy.



Poet's Identity Card


I am a yellow leaf

The wind forgot me

In a hurricane’s pocket

Sadness is my father-in-law

Since I married the poem

Feed my kids the clouds

And died in a suitcase

Isolation is my glasses' color

I am a noisy silence

Looking for a kiss

To break the glassy waiting

In my poem's eyes

I am the one who accumulated his screams

On a white paper

To turn this black world deaf

Who can but me

Seduce a sexy lady

Called heavens

So tell me

Just once

How poetry 'messenger could be a demon

While death's messenger called an angel

The psycho

Who talks to himself before the mirror

Blaming her for deforming his face

The psycho

Who wears humanity perfume

Is not a real psycho

He is a poet

He is me

But unfortunately

No one looks in the UN protocols for

The poet's properties in wisdom lands

No one tells Plato


Cities without poets

Are nothing but hell

Who can erase the blackboard's night

With a word

But the poet

Tell me who

O hope


This Poem Was Sung By A Finnish Singer Named Mia Skön And The Song Has The Same Title As The Poem.


My Handbag


My handbag is full of caution

Buttons of all sizes

For sudden holes

Needle and black threads

To sew wounds of heart and clothing as well

Empty sanitary bags for vomiting cases that occur to those who live here nowadays

Wet wipes to wipe make up' shredders.

My handbag is full of futility

Polisher for my shoes those expired by long roads

A mobile phone that is full of people 'names I cannot any longer remember

My poor quality glasses

My optometrist prescribed

On the pretext that I do not see beyond my nose

Dry cigarettes and a lighter that staggers genetically

Dried flowers and poems whose papers did not accommodate

Hankies those got tired of farewells

And you still ask me why does my back hurt?




I Am Not Here


I am not here

I am not listening to you

Some clamor had forgotten to end the call in my head

Opening my windows to the night's rusty tables,

To knives those still stuck in the necks of lovers,

Coffins the night composed on the tune of waiting,

Soldiers' shoes, which lost their owners,

Bags the vacuum has burdened,

Seas, which belch the prayers of the ones who died on their way to life,

Songs those mock the departed,

A sky that tightens the dawn's ear,

Houses, which changed their names,

Flags whose colors got throaty

And barricades whose sands ran away from the noise of their voices..

To awakening speeches

However, no one left to read,

So please; do not scratch my silence

I am not with you

Some tomb had forgotten the phone hanged on inside my head

Then turned the curtain down.



Interview With The Remains

Of A Syrian Man



What did the war do with the air?

-it furnished it with heartbreaks,

With canned salt and smoke.

What were you waiting for before you died?

-I was waiting for a dawn's smile I painted as a lover in my imagination.

What the trees dream about when you told them about the wind that would take you?

-they dreamed of dancing

They dreamed of many other things; they did not say a word about.

Was there other space that rains in your daydreams?

-yes, and in my night dreams it got me;

so, I got pregnant with another alienation.

Are you the same person before and after the war?

-no one comes back from war empty-handed.



SHUROUK HAMMOUD "born in 1982 ", a Syrian poetess, literary translator, BA of arts graduate and a master degree graduate of text translation, Damascus. She has four published poetry collections in Arabic language and two published poetry collection in English titled:(the night papers), (Blind time), and one bilingual book in Serbian and Macedonian and a poetry book in mandarin language titled:(the world is burning), in addition; excerpts of her poetry that have been published in many poetry anthologies in France, Serbia, Mexico, Italy, Taiwan, Netherlands, Belgium, Romania, Macedonia, China, and India. A member of Palestinian writers and journalists’ union. Award winner of many local and international poetry awards. Her poetry was translated into 16 languages. She has translated also poetry of more than 50 poets from around the world.

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