Tell me now, if you will not disdain the rubble, and give me a | Thoughts Hub

Tell me now, if you will not disdain the rubble, and give me another year. Behold, I am a handful of cold ashes, a speck of light, stuck in the crevice of the wall and there frozen like the scattered shards of shattered glass.

Touch me now, what will I find another year? Or three, there was nothing left but I gave his remains to the shade of a cypress, to the shade of a wall or a shrine. Behold, I am a handful of fatigue and emaciation, a withered reed near a depleted stream, smoke and a mirage that escapes dissipate to distant recesses.

My hand is the texture of marble, which is the dead whiteness. Or the purest black when the eyes darken and the crows brighten up the mornings of this exhaustion. And my head, and my eyes, and my mouth, and that heart, where am I going? A can in the hollow of a can in the hollow of a can.

Kiss me now, or else the air of willows spoil my soul and the misfortunes are all like my soul freed by the dust and the silence of the dust in the vaults of these hardships. And don't give me another year, the chairs, papers, and windows are bored with me, the thoughts that scared me are bored with me, and my fear is bored with me, and the paths surrendered me to the paths, and the doors delivered me to the doors, and the houses did not shade me, and the shadows did not shelter me, and every table was without salt.

I have stray steps in the places that are collected by echoes in the far place, and I have echoes that lent me their slippers and I walked with them, and I did not awaken the secret in the heart of the sky, which is the night, and in the heart of the night, which is the sky.

Taste me now, there is nothing left, those fingers of old age, withered lips wet with a kiss, with a bright laugh, with a revelation deeper than the secrets of my soul. And my eyes, quarries of extinguished glass like windows in the walls of forts, and my eyes are blind and do not see, and if they see, the plant has become salt or every chip has become inanimate. Like a vacant day that pushes the vacant day to a threshold beyond which I don't know what stands.

Indeed the angel loved me and I loved him, and whenever I loved him, I did not find in my wreckage the hand that was pointing, the breaths that revived, so what revives the wreckage? And I loved the rose as much as I loved, the petals withered, and I did not know before now that my touchless hand is the hand of the dead that I was, and my heart is close to weeping, and my body is a scarecrow bird erected in a desolate wilderness where the fruits do not ripen.

Pray to me now, if you do not nurture the wreckage, the most likely what you can find from it is what you find, the most remaining: a picture of me is shredded between the land of the tiles and the negligence of the neglected I make survival a habit, like living or smoking, and I would like to recover from it, but there is no cure.

Be me now, without pain, without hesitation. I closed the windows and lit a fire in the wood of waiting, for it is not sad, gloomy or painful to cut off the neglected stems in a neglected hill and to extinguish the air, the butterfly, the ghost of light, the window, the sight, the smell, the hearing and the touch.

Collect what you can from me, what is left: the eye that sees, the hand that withers the rose and withers grief over it, and the mouth that speech has never helped and silence has never helped. It is the deep well, and I loved to fall into it, and it is the sky when it is night, and it is the night when it is sky, and I do not know, between the two darknesses, how I lived for years, and I did not pay attention, and no one woke me up except the angel.

Breath me now, for another year, or two, or three, will not avail me. Perhaps it is from that nothing that your victory emerges, and with all this slowness your management takes place, and despite the barren aridity, your zamzam bursts forth. Perhaps your thirst blinded you except for what you expect, and every possibility outside you narrowed, like someone who draws water from an empty well and then it rains.