Departure To The Shores Of Dreams

A crusade that passed through me

While I was in the capital of gloom, a crusade passed by in the form of a woman, and the heart became under mandate, unable to respond against the colonial power. A mixture of sweetness and torment. She has the face of an angel and the stab of a warrior who opens the bolts of consciousness. She opens a door, enters the chest and struts in its left side, and when the full moon appears from between the clouds, she looks up as if she were looking at a mirror. She took from the gazelle, impudence and suspicion, and from the Arabian horses, stubbornness and strut. And now after her invasion, I suffer from love, alienation, and ill fortune. I am the hawk I am the knight I am the poet And she is my punishment.

By : Jamal Bander

seni sevmeyi ağır ödüyorum...

I tell my neighbor: Come and spend the night with me, I have figs, and almonds, and sugar. We sing, because you are lonely, And singing will ease your longing. I have a home, and a small area of land, So I am safe now. The land of my country is land from heaven, And on it sleeps the painful time. I tell our house: If I am alone, And snow and cold blows, My house is as fire to me, And the winter passes, friendly as a field of roses.

-Al Rahbani Brothers

I used to see you with my heart

This is the first time, that I see you with my eyes. For the first time, my hands don't tremble when you're sitting next to me. For the first time, I don't feel like I'm flying. It is the first time that I realize, you're much shorter than the sky of my dreams.

Wondering who you are?

You’re the purple scar that appears for no reason,

The images that give rise to nostalgia without features,

You are the ecstasy that did not complete,

A torment that lasted for an entire lifetime.

You...

You're like a trip I’ve been saving for months,

and when it was time to go,

I felt a desire not to leave.

Orientalist Paintings

Jean-Léon Gérôme - The Carpet Merchant 

Jean Leon Gerome - Pelt Merchant of Cairo

Frederick Arthur Bridgman - An Afternoon in Algiers

Osman Hamdi Bey - Islam Priest Reading Qura'an

John Frederick Lewis - The Midday Meal, Cairo

Ludwig Deutsch - The Tribute

Frederick Arthur Bridgman - The Messenger, 1879

Jean-Léon Gérôme - The Harem in the Kiosk, 1870

Frederick Arthur Bridgman - In The Souk, Tunis (1874)

Jean-Léon Gérôme - Prayer in the Mosque

John Frederick Lewis - The Kibab Shop

(The Reception) by John Frederick Lewis

Frederick Arthur Bridgman - Return from the Festival, Algiers

Gustav Bauernfeind - Forecourt of the Ummayad Mosque

Ludwig Deutsch - At Prayer (1923)

Frederick Arthur Bridgman - Young Woman On A Terrace

John Frederick Lewis - The Harem 1841

Ludwig Deutsch - The Qanun Player

Rudolf Ernst - The Carpet Seller

Martinus Rørbye - outside the Kilic Ali Pasha Mosque

Léon-Auguste-Adolphe Belly - Pilgrims going to Mecca

Amedeo Simonetti - The Rug Merchant

Eugène Fromentin - Windstorm

Jean Leon Gerome - The Whirling Dervish

Giulio Rosati - The Dance

Jean Discart - The Pottery Studio Tangiers

Osman Hamdi Bey - Young Woman Reading

Qana

The face of Qana Pale, like that of Jesus and the sea breeze of April… Rains of blood.. and tears.. They entered Qana stepping on our charred bodies Raising a Nazi flag in the lands of the South and rehearsing its stormy chapters   Hitler cremated them in the gas chambers   and they came after him to burn us Hitler kicked them out of Eastern Europe and they kicked us out of our lands They entered Qana Like hungry wolves Putting to fire the house of the Messiah Stepping on the dress of Hussain and the dear land of the South We saw the tears in Ali's eyes We heard his voice as he prayed under the rain of bloody skies Qana unveiled what was hidden We saw America Wearing the old coat of a Jewish Rabbi Leading the slaughter Blasting our children for no reason Blasting our wives for no reason Blasting our trees for no reason Blasting our thoughts for no reason Has it been decreed in her constitution, She, America, mistress of the world, In Hebrew .. that she should humble us al-Arabs? Has it been decreed that each time a ruler in America wants to win the presidency that he should kill us... We al Arabs?

-Nizar Qabbani

Every time i look at you,

my world slips...

The Glance That Shattered Silence

In the kingdoms of sand, where the moon lies cracked like a blade, And palaces rise from bones of sages and ruins of caravans made, There ruled a Caliph named Yazan ibn Subh, Seated upon a throne of fire, guarded by jinn and the whispering hush.

And far in a rival land, across the cursed river's sweep, Lived Princess Zahra, whose eyes could make angels weep. Her grandfather had fallen to Yazan's kin in a war of old, So between their houses, hatred ran bitter and cold.

But hearts know no borders when first they ignite, They met in a souk where shadows flirt with light. Zahra was trading with spirits, in spells and silver dust, Yazan watched, enchanted—his duty undone by lust.

"Why stare so boldly, O stranger in royal thread?" She asked, voice laced with dread. "Because," he said, "I have never seen dawn in flesh, And now I must chase it, though the world turn to ash."

And the Spirits Moved in the Shadows

The enemies of love allied: Yazan’s kin from one side, And Zahra’s sorceress-mother from the other, steeped in pride. They summoned seers of stars, bound jinn in chains of fate, Wove spells to turn passion into a poisoned plate.

The markets burned with rumor, the alleys whispered of doom, Slaves were stirred to fury, rebels were led from gloom. The witches spat curses upon the Caliph's crown, Sowing chaos like wheat, hoping to strike him down.

A secret faction rose: The Sacred Shadow, sworn to dethrone, A band of fanatics who claimed justice but wanted the throne. They whispered of Yazan's sins and Zahra's foreign blood, Till the streets turned against them, like rivers turned to mud.

An End Written by Darkness, with Ink of Starlight

The rebels came at moonrise, like wolves with steel for teeth, Yazan stood on the palace roof, the wind a dying wreath. Below him, fire and fury, above, a sky too still, And in his hands, her final note—a prayer, a will.

"If you fall today, know you have my heart in your hand, If you flee, take me far in search of nameless land: No thrones. No homeland. Just you and I— The shadow and the prayer, beneath one sky."

They fought like myths, but myths too must die, Yazan fell with blade in hand, and Zahra fled with a cry. For forty years the sun refused to shine on that sand, Till travelers claimed to see two ghosts walk hand in hand.

They say on moonlit dunes, when the stars are brave, You may see a Caliph and his beloved beyond the grave. Still they dance, still they sing, love stronger than time, A tale told in sorrow, in rhythm, and rhyme.

Thus ends the scroll—but never the longing...

Yet each man kills the thing he loves,

By each let this be heard: Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword! Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old; Some strangle with the hands of Gold: The kindest use a knife, because The dead so soon grow cold. Some love too little, some too long, Some sell and others buy; Some do the deed with many tears, And some without a sigh: For each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die.

Oscar Wilde