Page 23 - July 2021 Litterateur
P. 23

On threshold of the night,

                        They await the last evening to pass.
                        They eyes are filled with sorrow,
                        Unwillingly,
                        They forget themselves in the pathways of sin.

                        You think they are drunk because of the flames of estrangement From hopes they left
                        behind;
                        They are not.
                        But the shock is so hard on a sprout emerging

                        In the spring of their eyes.
                        They  did  not  wish  for  their  wounds  to  leave  their  footsteps,  Stolen  at  the  very
                        beginning of the path,
                        Where they stayed away from the blossoms of their days;

                        They rested in an exhausting exile that leafed out in their chests.


                        That’s what losers do with their time,
                        At the end,

                        When the last path heads nowhere in the face of night; For they gave everything,
                        And no words are left for them
                        From the wine of speech to make a judgment. Therefore, they no more care about the
                        screams Coming from their memories

                        Locked behind the door of life.
                        Oh, how noble it would have been of their dreams
                        To stay on paper,
                        In the closet.



                     Ali Al Hazmi, Saudi Arabia












































                   Litterateur                                   23



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