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I skip 3 bakeries, to reach the furthest fourth, to find a loaf of hot bread, which has just come out to the land of God.
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Crazy people alone write this … Poets too, a constant search for warmth in the heights and a journey that goes beyond writing.
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This blue note gives me the ability to plow a vast space, with my slender fingers, and to plow myself deeply, in the old night of Sana’a … to monopolize the labyrinths that I faced and to open cities created by my night forests .
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I begin to be realistic and I end up being a Facebook … I destroy the laws of writing, ripping the wires gathered in my vein, at the expense of a simple writing like my grandmother’s morning walk through the meadows of the country and “the people of Hammadi “.
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Destruction is a beautiful machine that I invented to prevent my night demon from getting angry.
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I write the above, and toss it onto my page, marking everything in its absence, with the help of my elusions as I go from a mountainous planet to a digital galaxy in pristine exile from my fingers.
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I can leave many points, at the end of the happy field, without collapsing the hypothetical pillars of the future, then, the real madness.
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An astonishing night, extensive horizontal writing and a field of wishes stretching from Sana’a to the island of Al-Kubra in the direction of al-Magheeb al-Muraib
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I skip 3 bakeries to buy a hot bun, surrounded by a bunch of temperamental dogs, in the middle of the winding street, and I refuse to sign for a new rope for our emergency neighborhood, arguing that it all “doesn’t concern me.”
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I look for an empty gas cylinder to fill with my infernal poems, after our kitchen is empty and full of fire.
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Who dictates this writing to you? Say: Who breaks all these songs on the way to the night?
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I don’t care about the distance, because I’m a poet who traveled the earth, swam in the sky, and now eats milk (and spaghetti) and bread.
Crazy people alone write this … Poets too, a constant search for warmth in the heights and a journey that goes beyond writing.
This blue note gives me the ability to plow a vast space, with my slender fingers, and to plow myself deeply, in the old night of Sana’a … to monopolize the labyrinths that I faced and to open cities created by my night forests .
I begin to be realistic and I end up being a Facebook … I destroy the laws of writing, ripping the wires gathered in my vein, at the expense of a simple writing like my grandmother’s morning walk through the meadows of the country and “the people of Hammadi “.
Destruction is a beautiful machine that I invented to prevent my night demon from getting angry.
I write the above, and toss it onto my page, marking everything in its absence, with the help of my elusions as I go from a mountainous planet to a digital galaxy in pristine exile from my fingers.
I can leave many points, at the end of the happy field, without collapsing the hypothetical pillars of the future, then, the real madness.
An astonishing night, extensive horizontal writing and a field of wishes stretching from Sana’a to the island of Al-Kubra in the direction of al-Magheeb al-Muraib
I skip 3 bakeries to buy a hot bun, surrounded by a bunch of temperamental dogs, in the middle of the winding street, and I refuse to sign for a new rope for our emergency neighborhood, arguing that it all “doesn’t concern me.”
I look for an empty gas cylinder to fill with my infernal poems, after our kitchen is empty and full of fire.
Who dictates this writing to you? Say: Who breaks all these songs on the way to the night?
* Sana’a, Yemen
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