Ii Baraa

“I have a tongue like a rose petal, and when I say I love you, it has the fragrance of truth. My words are my garden, and I’m planting our future.”
― Jarod Kintz, There are Two Typos of People in This World: Those Who Can Edit and Those Who Can't

“With warmest goodbyes, and I kiss your hand, if that is permitted.”
― Franz Kafka, Letters to Felice

“The weak breeze whispers nothing
the water screams sublime.
His feet shift, teeter-totter
deep breaths, stand back, it’s time.

Toes untouch the overpass
soon he’s water-bound.
Eyes locked shut but peek to see
the view from halfway down.

A little wind, a summer sun
a river rich and regal.
A flood of fond endorphins
brings a calm that knows no equal.

You’re flying now, you see things
much more clear than from the ground.
It's all okay, or it would be
were you not now halfway down.

Thrash to break from gravity
what now could slow the drop?
All I’d give for toes to touch
the safety back at top.

But this is it, the deed is done
silence drowns the sound.
Before I leaped I should've seen
the view from halfway down.

I really should’ve thought about
the view from halfway down.
I wish I could've known about
the view from halfway down—”
― Raphael Bob-Waksberg, BoJack Horseman: The Art Before the Horse

“This is my last letter
There will be no others.
This is the last grey cloud
That will rain on you,
After this, you will never again
Know the rain.
This is the last drop of wine in my cup
There will be no more drunkenness.

This is the last letter of madness,
The last letter of childhood.
After me you will no longer know
The purity of youth
The beauty of madness.
I have loved you
Like a child running from school
Hiding birds and poems
In his pockets.
With you I was a child of
Hallucinations,
Distractions,
Contradictions,
I was a child of poetry and nervous writing.
As for you,
You were a woman of Eastern ways
Waiting for her fate to appear
In the lines of the coffee cups.

How miserable you are, my lady,
After today
You won't be in the blue notebooks,
In the pages of the letters,
In the cry of the candles,
In the mailman's bag.
You won't be
Inside the children's sweets
In the colored kites.
You won't be in the pain of the letters
In the pain of the poems.
You have exiled yourself
From the gardens of my childhood
You are no longer poetry.”
― Nizar Qabbani, Arabian Love Poems: Full Arabic and English Texts