اللون البرتقالي والغروب الحبل والانتحار الزجاج والجرح

Olsun...

Deniz sen ol, ve ilk boğulan ben olacağım.

sen varış noktasısın, ve ilk gelen benim.

ev ol, ve ilk yaşayan ben olacağım.

şiir ol, ve ilk dinleyen benim.

Ne olursan ol,

ve sahip olduğum her şeyle senin olacağım.

In order for me to write poetry that isn’t political I must listen to the birds And in order to hear the birds The warplanes must be silent - Marwan Makhoul

🎨 : Nuri Lyem

لكي أكتب شعراً غير سياسي يجب أن أصغي الى العصافير ولكي أسمع العصافير يجب أن تصمت الطائرات - مروان مخول

What is life?

Dostoevsky: It's Hell

Socrates: It's an infestation

Aristotle: It is the mind

Nietzsche: It is strength

Marx: It is the conviction

Schopenhauer: It's suffering

Einstein: It is knowledge

Stephen Hopkins: It is hope

Kafka: The Endings

And you, what is your definition of life?

The most beautiful sea, hasn't been crossed yet. The most beautiful child, hasn't grown up yet. Our most beautiful days, we haven't seen yet. And the most beautiful words, I wanted to tell you I haven't said yet...

― Nâzım Hikmet

I saw her alone,

emaciated, heavy-eyed, really tired,

I asked her "who do you love ?"

Who wounded your heart and torn it?

Who melted your eyes in the nights and made you restless?

She said: Do not blame him.

He doesn't know that my heart adores him,

I've secretly loved him for months,

My heart has died of yearning.

"I deliberately read the writings of the miserable, the missing, and those whose hearts are broken, I read their cries to make me cry with them. My alphabet no longer accommodates this huge amount of sadness, so I started looking for someone to share it with me. It is a disaster to search for yourself in the writings of others, a disaster to lose yourself to this extent."

-unknown

يقولونَ إني كالبدرِ بَهجةً وأنَّ الجمالَ بوجهيَ ارتَسما

يحيطُ بي المدحُ مثلَ الهَواءِ ولكنَّ ذاتي تُرددُ: "لا" نَسَما

يأتونَ خاطبينَ، وبالعَينِ شَوقُ كأنّي كنزٌ على الدربِ مُبتَغى

وأسمعُ ألفاظَ ثَناءٍ تُقالُ كأنّي لؤلؤةٌ لا تُضاهى سَنا

ولكنَّ نفسي – غريبةُ دربي – كأنّي ظِلٌّ بلا نَورِه اتّقَدا

كأنَّ المرآةَ تُخفي حقيقتي وتُظهرُ وجهاً غريبًا عني بدا

فهل في المرايا كَذبٌ خَفيٌّ؟ أمِ العيبُ في العينِ إذ لم تَرَ الصَفا؟

أجيبوا سؤالاً سَكنَّي طويلاً لماذا الجمالُ إذا لم يُصدَّقا؟

You greet others with love,

while

I'm the one longing for you.

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