revolution’s fruits ..

To the one who is always missing
and always missed
I have all the time in the world
to write to the missing ..
to make up excuses for his absence
Looking for worthy words.. to write to you
he who is missing .. he who is you
I see you
When you are missing..
why do I find time to write to you
why do I carry the burden of all these questions
will they find an answer someday..
as you remain the main question
puzzling my beliefs ..
I would like to start my plea by writing ..
I miss you ..
How I miss you ..
as if you missed me too
and a thousand times over I’ll write
I miss you
would you spare the time to miss me too?
would you spare some time for the longing ..
would you think about me
would you wonder ..
would you ..
put your pen down and wonder
about me
about what I might be doing ..
how long
since that day
when the spring of revolution bloomed in the dead of winter
mixing the seasons of our lives
I lost the count of my revolution days
written on my revolution dairy
the very one you bought for me ..
by the end of December
in memory of who set himself on fire
to set us free
you wished me well
you called me love
you said while kissing my lips
that you wanted me to write ..
till the end of times
and be your love
till the end of times

you were the reason I write
and I wrote on my diary
for the revolution
I brought you my scribbles
for your eyes only
for you only
to read ..
and I stood before you
waiting for you eyes to set on me
while you red..
your smoke burning your fingers ..
burning my soul..
me.. trembling, waiting for your judgment
and you rose ..
and you embraced me fiercely.
Something big is happening you said ..
tears filling your eyes..
we are writing history you said ..
time froze its course you said..
waiting for our revolution.
our motherland is full.
anger and grief ..
and soon it will explode ..
into thousands of free men..
how beautiful the land is..
when anger and grief..
becomes a call for freedom..
the revolution diary you gave me ..
was full of revolution notes ..
and revolution tears ..
since January ..
and here comes April..
carrying the buds of our revolution ..
but the bitter wind kept blowing ..
the wind trying to blow our revolution ..
in April the fruits of our revolution began to rot
before harvest ..
and you ..
you packed your suitcase and left ..

closing behind you every door to every certainty..
opening the doors ..
to every prison cell i thought closed …
I thought the prisons were shut down for ever ..
but here they are ..
opening and swallowing me ..
while you are away..
and here I sit ..
on the cold concrete floor of my dark cell..
how hard the floor is ..
when you are not with me
how cold the floor is against my breast..
all of my being is shattered ..
and you are not with me ..
where are you..
are you watching my prison form far away ..
are writing about my prison from far away ..
are you lonely .. do you ever cry ..
from far away ..
Like those you used to criticize ..
and call cowards..
those who write about our prison ..
from the safety of their harbors..
here you are one of them ..
one of those cowards ..
on of those who run form our prison ..
you didn’t wait ..
for our land to breath out the anger and grief
shattering the walls of the prison..
here you are ..
just another coward ..


It came true ..
your distant dream from your distant Land came true ..
here is our second revolution unfolding ..
just like you said ..
and you are still away ..
in the month of April sir.
we don’t celebrate love ..
in the month of April ..
the seasons of our story change ..
our story, sir ..
nothing happens sir ..
within the walls of my prison ..
just that your letters, from you distant land ..
don’t reach me anymore ..
and I don’t talk anymore ..
inside the walls of my prison ..
not even to myself ..

In the month of April sir..
I take my coffee on the ledge of my broken memories ..
and with every sip ..
your face stares back at me ..
from the depth of my coffee ..
I hear the sight of my mother ..
telling me again
that my coffee is getting cold..
how brutal a cold coffee is ..
when it makes my mother sad ..
while you are away ..

and the seed you planted inside of me
on a cold January 14th day
is still growing ..

I tell my mother about you ..
every cold coffee
Mother .. oh mother ..
my coffee is cold again ..

you letters stopped coming ..
when your letters stop,
I loose my name ..
I loose my face ..
I become a number ..
in a long list of numbers
within the walls of this prison ..
and the distance between us
but I still wonder ..
if you ever spare the time to miss me ..
put down your pen ..
and wonder ..

Why ..
does life become a burden
when the revolution fruits are rotten
why ..
does loneliness become so terrible ..
when the revolution is bruised

when the cold floor of my cell
becomes my defeat ..
how heavy my burden is
how heavy my burden is
how heavy my burden is

(translated by Rime)

هذا المنشور نشر في English. حفظ الرابط الثابت.

2 Responses to revolution’s fruits ..

  1. Pu Tu كتب:

    I really like this Poem…’s so True….you gave him his flown soul back, with your lovely words.

  2. You can feel something personal floating through your words . beautiful .

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