Ilhem Issaoui

My beloved
Neither the sun nor the moon shall be compared to
My beloved
O clandestine castle haunted by mist and mystery
O stretching fields of merriment silenced forever
O child vicious and precarious
O my adamantine pain and woe
My diaphanous suffering
My battles languished
My pride tarnished
My streams of tears amarulent gliding along
O questions that I fail to answer
My glee soaring farer
And never never
Returning to its abode

Shall I wait for dawn to come
And bring his fragrance
To the thoughts dry
Like a jejune land
The night is amarulent
Cacophony penetrates it
I shall close the eyes
Perhaps, tomorrow
There shall be green and water

Today was like no other
The blooming almonds
Burgeoning again
The dewdrops dispersed
How I wish they were still
To enlighten my sorrows
And tinge my pathos
with sumptuous tears
still in that
I see your gleaming forehead
A sunflower lofty and well-bred

Do gaze at my face
O owner of eyes that are purer
Than my grief
O owner of voice
That recalls the softest dewdrops
O vendor of sentiments
That imbue the rocks with feelings
Aye with feelings…
Do I bear a straw of resemblance
With someone you were acquainted with
Nay nay
I was long ago a bygone to you
Beset by heavy dust
Whelved already
You ask
Who am I?
I reply
A passer by
A passer by…

I am simple
aye, I am simple
and the half of everything
can remit my ardour
I am a boat made of paper
half sunk and half lofty
and I have dreamt and dreamt
not once
of existing
and not existing
purgatorial essence
is the essence that defines me
an arch-angel
an arch-fiend
nay I am not avoiding thee
O thee who are besieging me
thee who defines faithfulness
By mere presence
and thou who shout
“what a crime
What a crime”
When someone sees beauty
In a marvel
that is half lame
and half sublime
What a nonsense!
My philosophy is not thine
I am my own definition
I am mine
I am mine

There it goes,
There it overflows,
There it wanders

In a swift feather-like manner
When wind blows
Running thither

As if to be forgotten
To be the dew
Inside a book bitterly written

To moan in silence
To hurt to torn
To be doomed to an everlasting mutiny