نهارًا و ليلًا
تُشرِقُ الموسيقى
وادِعَةً
من المزمار.
نَبْهَتُ
عندما تتلاشى.

—جلالُ الدّينِ الرّومي.

أخافُ أحيانًا،
من الاتّحاد بك مُجددًا،
وأحيانًا أُخرى أخافُ الانفصال.
أنا وأنت
مُولعان بوهم أننا اثنين.
هيّا، لنعش على افتراض أننا
لن نسمع هذه الضمائر التي تفصل بيننا
مرّة أخرى.

—جلال الدين الرومي.

إن كنت تملك ذاتًّا،
فأهملها
دعها تنحلّ
لتستطيع العودة إلى الكلمة الأولى
التي جئنا منها جميعًا.
في انتظارنا الآن،
آلاف الكلمات
لكننا نرفضُ الرحيل.

—جلال الدين الرومي.

أنا خارج الكوكب الآن
صوتي لا يَصِلُ فمي
مثل رصاصةٍ عالقة في بندقيةِ جُندي طيب
أو ضحكة طفل لا وجه لهُ
ولِد هكذا،
بلا وجهٍ
ولا رأس.

—قاسم سعودي.

لِجارنا العجوز هواية نادرة
سرقةُ التوابيتِ من المساجد
ليصنع منها في الصباح بعض الألعاب الخشبية
للأطفال.
مرةً،
سرقَ تابوتًا صغيرًا
فأخذ الأطفالُ يبكون بِحرقة
دخل أحدُهم إلى التابوت
لكنهُ سُرعان ما تحول إلى طفلين
هكذا، ظل الأطفال الموتى يخرجون تباعًا
ليزداد عددهم في المدينة
جارنا العجوز، الآن في السجن
ولا يزورهُ أحدٌ
سِوى أطفال التوابيت.

—قاسم سعودي.

مرة، كُنت شبحًا طيبًا
أصد الرصاص عن الجنود
أجلِبُ لهم الماء
وأحاول كثيرًا ألّا يموت أحدهم
في ليلة، حاولت الوقوفَ بوجه قذيفةٍ
لكني تلقيتُ صفعةً قويةً
سُرعان ما عدتُ سعيدًا،
وأنا أساعد الكادحين على حمل الأكياس الثقيلة
ذات ليلة، شعرتُ بجوعٍ هائل
لكادحٍ لم أره من أسبوع
نزلتُ إلى شوارع المدينة
وصلتُ إلى منزلهِ
وسمعتُ عويلًا،
لم يُشبه أي عويل
لقد مات صديقي..
وهو يحملُ كيس طحين
بينما كُنت أصد الرصاص
عن أصدقائهِ الجنود.

—قاسم سعودي.

في غُرفتي الصغيرة،
الكثيرُ من الجنود الذي عرفتهم في حياتي.
قُمصاني لا تكفيهم،
ولا طعامي
ما يُحزنني أني نسيتُ أسمائهم جميعًا.
وفي غُرفتي الصغيرة،
اطفئ الضوء مُبكرًا
حتى ينام جنودي
الذين يصرخون في رأسي كُل ليلةً.


—قاسم سعودي.

Home is behind,
The world ahead,
And there are many paths to tread,
Through shadow
To the edge of night,
Until the stars are all alight,
Mist and shadow,
Cloud and shade,
All shall fade
All shall...fade.

- Pippin's Song | Edge of Night, Lord of the Rings

My father used to hit me so hard that I used to see stars. So I decided to name them to not feel so alone. Now the night sky is a portrait of wounds from when I was a child. If I cannot pray to the stars, then who? My prayers, they echo through space looking for a home, but home is just as empty as childhood.

— Hannah Green, from “Night Sky.”

“But how to explain my obsession with destruction?
Not self-immolation
but more of a disintegration,
slow, like…
sugar in water.
I dissolve.”

— Erika Meitner.

There was never
any magic; there
was never this
body or its wound,
there was only
water
& the stories
we passed
through it.

—  Ariana Brown.

"Who, if I screamed out, would hear me amongst the hierarchies of angels? And if one suddenly did take me to his heart: I would perish from his stronger existence. For beauty is nothing but the onset of terror we’re still just able to bear, and we admire it so because it calmly disdains to destroy us."

"I’m just one
body or set of rules
I break in a heartbeat
for a feeling
of thrill
wreckless
wrecklessam
I another long long trick
of existencestill burning."

— Henrik Ibsen.

I see I wasn’t running from the war
back then. I was running from the peace.
The love I did not believe I was worth.
And because that lie held so much grief,
I don’t know that I ever got over you
as much as I got under
the engine of myself
to fix the machine of my love,
but it still runs way too much,
if you know what I mean,
and I know you know what I mean,
because this was not the first lifetime
we said goodbye
without wanting to say goodbye,
Was it?

— Andrea Gibson.

 I stare at my body in a photograph
where all my friends surround me, smiling.
That boy, laughing,
 who is he? I want to own his body, to lift
Him from the room. I want to end the grief
 of staring at that body in a photograph
when I don't recognize that boy, that laugh.

— Stephanie Rogers.

It seems a lot doesn't it? You realize that you're nothing but an extravagant collection of problems, and it's not a breakup, an argument, nor your family..who made you realize that. You just know, while looking blankly at the dish you broke and it scarred your hand. There's a pile of dishes that are waiting to be washed, and a song that paints the kitchen blue, blasting behind you. You throw it in the trash, and hear it, shattering to smaller pieces, but it hits you. It's sad, how much you see yourself, in a broken, dirty dish. Your hand bleeds, what does that mean? Is this the dish's last words? Was its last wish to mark my hand with a permanent scar in hope that it'll never be forgotton? It'll never be healed? You realize, you do the same. You, in your core, are the dish, your blood turns blue, because you realize, that you wound those whom you love, by staying. You wound them by being here, knowing damn well that you'll leave soon. You bleed, on the floor, on the rest of the dishes, and on your phone.. While you're trying to change the song..to something more blue-ish. And this is your mark. you're wounded and you don't want to heal. You scratch your wounds, whenever they heal, and you bleed endlessly on everyone you love, on everything you touch, you drown them with your blue blood, you force them to sink..because you don't now how else to be seen. You don't know how to love, without sinking, or forcing others to sink.

“if you tuck the name of a loved one
under your tongue too long
without speaking it,
it becomes blood,”

-Naomi shihab nye.

“I’ve always tried to make a home for myself, but I have not felt at home in myself. I’ve worked hard at being the hero of my own life. But every time I checked the register of displaced persons, I was still on it. I didn’t know how to belong."

— Jeanette Winterson.

“Dig your teeth into me. Come on, I dare you. Take a bite. Open me up: raw and candyfloss pink on the inside. Make it hurt. I figure, you’re going to hurt me one way or another. Might as well be with your mouth.”

— IT’S A CIRCUS AND WE ALL PAID TO BE HERE, by Ashe Vernon.

“At times I hardly can believe in you. Except this ache, this longing in my gut, this emptiness which theorizes you because if there is emptiness this deep, there must be fullness somewhere.”

— Erica Jong, Half Lives