Saba

“The days aren't discarded or collected, they are bees
that burned with sweetness or maddened
the sting: the struggle continues,
the journeys go and come between honey and pain.
No, the net of years doesn't unweave: there is no net.
They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river.
Sleep doesn't divide life into halves,
or action, or silence, or honor:
life is like a stone, a single motion,
a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves,
an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal
that climbs or descends burning in your bones.”
― Pablo Neruda, Still Another Day

“وشفّاف
حضورك, فلا أدري إن كانت روحك تسكن
جسدك, أم أن جسدك يلبس روحك
ويشعّ لؤلؤة في عتمتي.يختلط عليّ
الشكل والجوهر,فأرى الشكل جوهراً
والجوهر شكل الكمال”
― محمود درويش, أثر الفراشة