أنا خطيئتُكَ التي لن تُغتفر، وأنا الذنب الذي بينكَ وبين دعواتكَ التي لن تُستجاب. سأظلُ أدعو عليكَ بصلواتي الخمس، وفي كلِّ سجدة، سأطلبُ من عظمته التي يهتزُ لها الكون
I started writing this novel, and the novel began to write me in lines. I may not be the one who came in this novel, and the novel may have come from outside the boundaries of contemporary times, but in reality it came and depicted people and events, and its events unfolded in a manner other than what I wanted to write about. These events may have occurred in a certain period of time, and in a certain village, and I may not have seen such hurricanes, but they are real. They may occur in a certain time and space, or rather they are a contemporary event, but in another way, they wear a garment that is compatible with the structure of the era in which we live. In it, we are in a time in which there are multiple reasons and technical methods, and in which models of human studies differ from day to day with the aim of achieving human goals and achieving his many different goals. All of this happens, and it happens at every time and place, as long as a person remains, and his limitless whims and ambitions grow, and it also happens in moments of departure from the conscious self and immersion in the mire of rampant animalism.
There will be night, there will be an earthquake, there will be a hurricane, and there will be death, despite the floodlights, the bright rays of light, and the modern speakers and lights.
The “human animal” emerges brandishing the sword of destruction, riding the horse of fire at the hour of the conscious self emerging from itself and being separated from the origin of formation, so the human being will be as it was at the beginning of its formation, instinct will be the essence of this formation, and deterioration will be the diameter of this being.
It is a collection of articles including:
Your slumber and your jealousy are killing me. Your neglect and absence kill me. I am here between the magic of your fingertips before dawn opens his heart and eyes. Do you still remember my beloved, or have travels, the call of dawn, and beautiful women of chance stolen you? Am I still in you like a bird that happily pecked your palm and then flew away so that you would not see its hidden sadness? On this day, I woke up to the rose of my heart between your lips. I felt the lines of your face with a tremor of fear that I would ignite her fleeing life. I saw the pupils of your eyes only to read the distances, the textures, and the seas that you crossed with a closed heart, to land exactly where you were destined to amaze me before you stole me. I saw you at the threshold of fear telling me what was in your heart, before you withdrew: I fear that I will die and not be satisfied with the touch of silk in your soul, nor with the storms of a body that was stolen since the first resurrection, nor with the luminous language that childhood buried in her heart, and closed tightly for fear of getting lost and forgotten. I search for you without fear of me, and I do not know how a lover can be the victim of a dream that he stole while unaware of his grief
