The road is immersed in the futility of nostalgia,
No hand extends beyond a shadow that shakes my hand at the neighing of the poem.
I race the bruises of my wounds and panting behind the shadows of my pain,
I rise from the tracks of longing, the scars of the sound of fire.
All the regions of hope are covered in the snow of our tragedy
I was trembling on the chest of suffering in the bones of the night,
And thunder warm visions on the pillows of the inhale-
All the walls are empty from the eagerness,
I throw into the throats silent-
No bathroom on my window with his suffocating messages
And there is no sun on my bed that I carry my strange night.
There are no trees in my lonely paths,
I will take shelter in your exile
I leave in the winter of my thought, in the fight of the question
And behind the vein of the meaning of the corner breakthrough
It won’t rain for our unlikely hug,
The clouds caught the barefoot piece of sugar
My heart does not obey me for gambling and my parts accuse me of treason-
As if I included you at the last watch, so that my prayers would not be accepted
And your chest is a crime that punishes my pieces,
I was tormented enough to be buried like an ostrich
I am the accusation of love and at the pitfalls
I stand in the middle of the pain.
-AMAN ALLAH GHARBI (TUNISIA)