Artwork by Khaled Jarada, poems by Hani Albayarie
Here is the almost-dead, which escapes, like all dreams, It’s at his heart that the hand of the desert extends, He carries all the seas of this universe and trots. He wears blue, and his green days, He carries all the joy, All the ruptures, all the sorrows and the disappointments He wears winter and searches for another land, Where he will say to the raining clouds, To sow the sea in a land other than the one we know. Hope was the last breath of the traveler, Hope was his land.
So, This is his first picture, The traveler shrinks on himself, his boundaries are clear, This is not unlike his features, as everything mixes Who are like him, We don’t know what that will wake him up shortly, Let’s write all of this about him, We don’t know what changed his heart, Its borders are clear, and this is not similar to its features. The traveler was alive, in a place of confinement. Others were with him, others were like him.
For the first time, The traveler opens his eyes to see his city of light, The neighbourhood looks like the city, embraces it, The traveler wiped away the night darkness of his eyes, to know the city, his city, the first colour. The traveler says to himself: "Sleep, little one, so that fear will go away and be reassured.” The earth was calm within the traveler’s arms. The earth slept. Like everything. The city was above all the home of the traveler, The city was his land.
Thus, the earth becomes narrow, the researcher does not sleep in its secret. He does not sleep, does not wake up, It is the same as the one who is fed up with it, He does not like anything about it, and its door scares it, the door of the sea The semi-sleeping, semi-dead says: You are my last door, and you are the key. This sea does not rest, and does not sleep. The traveler sings and doesn’t do anything good to sing. The sea was the traveler’s last door, the sea was his fear.
He was asking But no door provides answers Almost dead dream He lost consciousness It’s raining water and the smell of onions The almost dead wakes up, dies, dreams and breaks Smiling His heart is bad and fragile So now the almost dead is crying.
This is his last trip, The almost dead says nothing But he feels a light and hidden joy Twenty-four roses are wilted in his soul But another rose will sprout shortly The almost dead does not know a river But on a certain edge, The almost dead is seated Waiting for his birth again This is what will happen in a moment.
