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(Translated
By: Professor, Mohammed Enani):
Your
store victory in a game .. which is yours alone.
The
masses are days scattered about.
You,
my girl, now read the glass on my forearms,
Giving
me a desire ..
..
to glide over the constants.
The
backbone is free of any slaves' necks,
And
the fingers grow on a river bank.
For
a distance,
I
may: have a mistress-oh, for a flower of salt,
Blessed
with clashing hurricanes.
How
did your flesh pour forth,
In
the earth's amazent ..
Inventing:
a girl child freezing,
And
a woman for banquets?
A
mallet on the weeds of your eyes.
Buttons
of coma in your shirt..
Whoever
did unleash the ox,
In
the body/letter?
The
girls want a man to be a cane,
And
the flies come down on the dead thigh,
Whose
silence calls on you to climb it.
A
coffee, brewed from "I love you",
Is
in the throat,
And
a woman, as in the beginning,
Is
an apple..
(Her
heaped breast is an apple).
As
multiple, it leaves its hallmark,
In
an inhalation..,
Some
bunches of grapes, engrossed in:
Trying
to discover my race,
A
man whose mother suckled him..
His
name, as a curdling milk?
What
is the colour of this.. ..?
So
that the green colour of my blood,
Is
truly the language of truth?
A
whirlpool of noises,
While
you remain outside an inviting bottle.
A
piece of you, spun with my own hand.
We
meet,
And
to you comes a man engrossed,
In
trying to discover his race. (1996-Cairo).