A poem entitled, Two Northern Eyes

She stopped me, and the road was ours. The green eyes… thanked me. She honored me – she said – with a song. And poetry is honorable if it honors me. Do not thank me… and thank a horizon whose stars have descended encircling me.. and a green garden.. if I laugh, on the borders of the star you plant me. The pine wished for me to photograph it. I will respond to his request.. Can I ? And I looked into the eyes of my interlocutor, and the tide was enveloping me…and spreading me, and the vines were there…arising, and the green roots…carrying me…these are seas that I was ignorant of for any land – after today – oh my ships…with us are the winds…so tell my sails to cross the oily expanse and embrace me in shame… If my mast is not moored in two ports at the end of time, what? Does the range tire you? Never, nothing in your eyes makes me tired. I hope for loss and rest in it. Oh, woe, a path that does not waste me.. And I looked.. I still know the path of our village, and it knows me. My home.. and my father’s house.. and our garden, and the orange bush embraced me. I was lost in its eyes and did not know that I worshiped with its eyes.. my homeland.

Writer: Walid Youssef

A beautiful surrealistic painting

A creative surrealistic artistic painting

A creative surrealistic artistic painting

A poem titled, Diary of a Pirate

My dear, if I go back to myself for a moment, I feel that our love is a crime, and that I am an old clown who is being whistled and insulted by the crowd. I feel like a thief stealing a precious pearl. I feel in my depths that the phrase I utter is a crime, that my claimed victories are nothing but defeat, for I am nothing more than an old newspaper, and you, my little girl, are still… You need motherhood. If I return for a moment to myself, I realize, my dear, the insignificance of my victory. I feel that our love is a suicidal experience and that we are scrambling like children in the shells of oysters. I feel that my laughter is a kind of gambling and my kisses are a kind of gambling. I feel that your breast planted next to me is like a silvered dagger, like an orbiting planet that curses me and flogs me. It makes me feel ashamed if I return for a moment. For myself, I feel that our love is a great foolishness, and that I am a seafarer who brings sexy rabbits out of his pockets, and that I am like a slave trader who sells every woman of his conscience. I feel in my depths that my hand in your small hands is a vile piracy, that my hand is like a spider’s thread wrapped around the waist and the braid. I feel in my depths that you are. Still, I am a bad ewe, but I am an old boat facing the last minutes

Writer: Walid Youssef

A creative surrealistic artistic painting

A creative surrealistic artistic painting

A beautiful surrealistic painting

A beautiful surrealistic painting