Heart Controller

Yet entities are ungrateful of who they are, Forgetting their creation and their death, As if living without any rules to abide with, Similar to animals, alas, worst than them. We were created from clay then a clot, Specific guided regulations made a lump, A foetus is created, then the white bones, And clothing them with flesh into entities. Endless blessings, one after the other, And then destined to be housed in graves, Another life far from the first vivid one, And then, to Him, we all indeed resurrect. Saturday, 14 th of January 2012

This is a short story about you and me, It starts with a chapter about a beach, Filled with birds, rocks, sand, and sea, Summarised in these few lines to teach. A young curious bird approached me, I was sitting still cross-legged for hours, Glancing at the wonders of the vast sea, He questions about your kind and ours’. “What part of this beach do you like most?” “Rocks that are half-below-half- over -the-sea.” The water is but the temporary life (lost), The sand is divided preaching the word ‘free’. Conversely, the rock is made up of sand, Though united within one solid entity, Not drowned in this life and left to strand, Lost and delusional; no purpose nor identity. And not into worship without a nice rest, From this temporary life completely away, For Allah likes to see His blessings stressed, Thus, my rock is the choice of pray and play. The curious bird stood still as if a gnome, Listening to the profound disclosed novel, I...

Trends and calamities will prevail in a chaotic city, Reach an uncertain sector, a university, to infect, Uncivilised despite the adequacy of data feasts, And hence my seclusion to a natural wilderness. Beaches filled with sand, rocks, birds and water, No humans if I timed it correctly; cold rainy nights, Just me and them drawn together as if an entity, Our lengthy conversations are mere observations. I retreat if when the ocean intimidates my feet, I disparage small rocks fallen from majestic cliffs, The sand accepts my toes to produce blueprints, Whity foams glide to enter the gate of insanity. Birds asked me: “Which part of it do you like?” I answered: “The rock whose half above water.” To know why I adore the half-drowned rocks You have to have patience and wait for a novel. Sunday, 4 th of December 2011

Soul’s only comfort is to feel the grains of sand, Taken from Land of purity, serenity, and charm, Longing to meet my elegant people in the Land, The Land is over the seas and under the storms. Once upon a whole new world resides a flower, In territories further up north from the original, But self’s Origin is, from it just a bit northwest, Saddened by fate separating flower from Land. I have arrived at a crossroad of copious paths, I should take that of the Land, albeit tortuous, Me united with the northern flower is up to fate, Although, new flowers do continuously blossom. Monday, 7 th of November 2011

It is a night like this that the elders feared, Look at the glowing moon how blue it is, And a subtle wind with a bloody odour, Lost weapons, armours, both mine and his. We are born fibbers and fearless hunters, Though, tonight is not ours to speak falsely, And albeit he is lazing alone against the rock, His body so tense and agitated immensely. Tomorrow we wait for the calm breeze, And bid farewell to this old black forest, Only to return and continue our mission, Assassinating him and his sons we arrest. Thursday, 20 th of October 2011

Trickling rain and thunderous lightning, Whispering wind and rustling leaves, Concealed moon and dark forests, Murky night and black creatures. Damp soil and central campfire, Upright tents and crackling sticks, Breathing deep and silent tears, Seven men and eighth inscribing. Weary brain and ashen heart, Painful chest and burning eyes, Calloused feet and quivering hands, Empty hugs and forlorn kisses. O’ wind O’ wind convey my words, O’ echo O’ echo tell us how far we go, O’ wife, O’ love, O’ pure lady, O’ where my wife? Where are you? Saturday, 08 th of October 2011

A learned speaker once told me to be direct, I would assume he was a professor of shade, Painting my quality through an iron object, Or pottery of poetry within castles to be made, So I did, hidden symbolic letters to resurrect, Whilst my deep secret passions I so forbade, Strangers of unknown origins eyes to suspect, For the innocence of one’s self has decayed, Apart from that I wrote outdoors to recollect, Earth Whisperers hinting for a danger to evade, For a direct poem I needed a subject to select, Here, a couple of shiny dirhams for us to trade. Thursday, 15 th of September 2011