Shaabi

I didn't write you, I didn't write you, and everyone who reads my poem says all poetry is about you, and I hold the pen... I didn't write anything about you... Maybe I wrote you in my heart...

Blessed memory of Mansour, O God, O sender of blessings with the mountain, O manager of His creation... As He wills, He compels, glory to Faleh, and write him rewarded with patience...

Windows of the wound, O narrowness of mind, what is for the state and its exhaustion, and the tear that races me and I race it with every absence of twilight of the sun and its radiance...

Wisdom, O seller of a cloak to other than its owners, like one who descends to a ruined palace, if he enters it and wets the chandelier and waters it and rains it with rubies...

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Nothing is left but evil

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