After John Keats I hang from a cloud, fly over an island,Listen to cries and angry prayers,Find a path through filthy air and deadly smiles.Death is kneeling before your tender body, Begging to be kissed alive,Hug his tears and caress his wishes. The end is close, and an empty happiness, fills my heart. Scatter more of you delicious scent,Or recite your name without a fret. O, lonely breeze of

The beats slow downShivers... then suddenly stopsA second of death...  A moment of darknessCrude memories and the images of the daysThey begin to pass, spreading ashes and liesThey will tell jokes and laugh at your headLet the party begin, you shout Silent and cold A breath rushes in the eyesA blink to the world that is... that was near...Closer to the dead heartAnother weak beatAnother chance

By:  Ahmed Yousef Aqila (1) They Fled to the mountains, and chose a deep endless cave to hide. They walked inside a long tunnel for many days... I meant nights, or more accurately a long dark period of time, while touching the walls. They were seven men and the eighth was their dog and the ninth a mobile phone and the tenth a laptop computer. A beam of sun has emerged somwhere from the roof of

These are some statistics for Imtidad Blog for 2009 in comparison to 2008... Thank you all. هذه بعض الاحصائيات الخاصة بمدونة امتداد للعام 2009 بالمقارنة مع العام 2008... شكراً لكم جميعاً.  Imtidad Podcast Statistics since 2006 (approximate)  احصائيات بودكاست امتداد منذ العام 2006 (تقريبية) Total Episodes: مجموع الحلقات: 24 Total downloads: 5755 مجموع التنزيلات: Average downloads per

By: Moftah Al Ammari** Because I am from the sap of the rough land My father a logger of dreams My mother a weaver of promise That gives birth to meaning I won’t migrate To another language Flying like deceived ashes Snatched between the wind mills Above towers of smoke Overwhelmed with delusional joys And the chatter of reckless whims And where ever my language might wander My song won’t

About to leave for a journey Hanging all hopes Reaching the final fall I write to you on the evening cold sun Pain gnawing my heart Grabbing the dream of the dying light I hold to that delicious shadow of you Sipping your tea, brushing your hair Sending a kiss.. Dip a finger in your cream Approach the edges of your land Shackle myself with the eyes, lips.. Surrender to dread and despair I

By: Salem Al Ojali* It was when a truck roared passed me on the road, that I realised where I was, it shook the place and drove away leaving a silent desolate road behind. I realised that I was always like this; anticipating the past and future, driving in a small old car, on a road I didn’t recognise, bewildered in front of the soldiers at the check points, astonished by the vastness of

By: Mohamed Shaltami*Writings on cell door 6My comrades…Will these stones grow grass in dawn?Will the wishes bloom on the walls of death, and the seeds?Will the songs resound through the echo?And will the memories scent the stove?Herein since a monthsince a yearsince a century,a wall stood up and a prison and a doomed generation.Will the sad spring sun, riseto wake our demised dreams?Will the

Tate Modern's latest installation in the interior space of the Turbine Hall, known also as The Unilever Series, is a giant steel box called (How It Is) by Polish artist Miroslaw Balka, it stands on two metres metal columns with a thirteen metres in height and thirty metres in length. Visitors can walk underneath it, listening to the echoing sound of footsteps on steel above, or enter via a ramp

There is always a tomorrow * Evil can be conquered with a smile * Never let go of your dreams * Who said that love doesn't exist, I eat every day from you lips * Even if they burn you on the stake your ashes will blend with the soil and feed the trees * She might be ugly and wicked but you still need her milk * Night might be dark and mysterious but think about the moon and all the

By: Mohamed Al Asfar*They met every Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday morning in front of the bookshop, chatting about the busy life, most of them old men even time got fed up counting their age, their faces reveal the marks of senility from limpness, dryness and tremor, some of them snuffed and chewed tobacco while the others smoked cigarettes while exhaling with difficulty. Haj Buzaid sneezed while

(San Marzano Tomatoes)

To Grant... Wind blows off the white cliffs, rain rolling behind, and a sun will follow. The sounds of thunder and tumbling waves, eating part of tin and chalk, land’s end begins tonight, nothing is left from a lonely summer, the smell of baked pastry hit the heart, but still something is left of him on the sea. The image shines on the mountain towards the old town, all of them were here, Romans, Huns, and Greeks before, then came us, or maybe we were here when it was all sea and green, she holds him in her arms and recites stories of wandering kings and knights with broken swards, he tries to remember a smell, a touch, a glimpse on the edge of dreams, kan yama kan fe qadeem azzaman... It all came back with a sip of water from the old well; all came back at the edge of the sea. Bread, olive oil, thyme, cheese and figs on the side, twenty maybe thirty years, months, minutes passed, whoever cares, they never left anything, anyone behind. A tall figure stands with him facing the ...

To S.I wish.. you wish.. we wish..high on the hill.. drifting in the voidthe sun sleeping on your cheeksa river breeze kissing your hairI wish..walk me down the narrow roadtouching your swollen heart caressing the skin with nettle stingsYou wish..blowing our fear with the settingno blackberries to waste for another daytheir purple stain burns the chestWe wish..A wave.. a smile.. a promise.. Ciao