كوكتيل

مصطفى قمر _عارف لية

أدى اللى كان بيقول زمان غيرك ماليش ياكل حاجه !!!

ady-elly-can

Mohamed Fo2ad - Ma32ol

بحبك / فيلم الحب الأول - مصطفى قمر

اخر الدنيا هشام عباس

a low floor under a higher ache

Patience is percussion on the rim of rock,
drip spells doctrine into lime and chalk.
Grain after grain, a grammar under frost,
letters in the limestone learning what is lost.
I set my jaw to gentle, let the rhythm choose,
soft knocks, small knocks, news against the bruise.
Clarify or calcify, the fork inside the throat:
one path is water writing, one is turning to a coat.
I practice being porous where the day would plate me tight,
let meaning seep and brighten, not harden into white.

Little laws in little drops, low work, long light;
I keep a softer center where the corners want to bite.

This is what the waiting’s like, drops of sulphur born from strife.
Is this what hope can be, blindfolded photon, cascading endlessly.
Strike, wave warm and boldly, collapse into the only,
only one that ever was, feed the growth of fern and moss.
Maybe all of us are alike, alike alone together on this tall steep hike, 
this is what a loop is like.

Hill with a hard old heart, I climb and keep it kind,
boots rhyme slate with breath, I loosen in the mind.
Stubborn grace is cheek against the granite’s stubborn face,
neither breaks the other; both remember pace.
I knock the same small syllable until the music yields,
not cracking for a triumph, but opening to fields.
Clarify or calcify, I hear the proverb ring,
Dyfal donc on knuckle bone until the welter sings.
Not every edge needs filing; some just want a palm,
a steady pulse of nearness drumming them to calm.

Stone learns slow from water; I learn slow from stone,
to carry weight without becoming wholly bone.

This is what the waiting’s like, drops of sulphur born from strife.
Hope is how a photon hides, a wave that will not choose a side,
blindfold on, it rides and rides.
Strike, then warm and boldly be, collapse into the only,
only love that ever was, feed the fern, invite the moss.
Maybe all of us alike, alike alone upon this hike,
this is what a loop is like.

Wave says “both,” and particle says “pick,”
I lay the coin on tongue and let it melt, not click.
Knees know slate, hands know shale,
heart is a hammer that has learned to fail
at breaking; now it learns to name,
to tap until the shape is tame.
Clarify the salt from grief,
calcify the false belief.
If I must harden, let it be to hold,
a shell around the tender, not a prison made of cold.

The ridge is long, the weather’s loud,
we are a hush inside a crowd.
I see you shoulder daylight’s load,
I hear you counting stones to code.
The choice repeats in rain and rhyme,
turn to crust or turn to time.
I keep a cup for clarity and carry what I can,
I leave a chalk-white outline where I used to be a man.
Grace is not a lightning strike; it’s knuckles, breath, and will,
the courage to stay soluble and sing while standing still.

Tap and listen, listen and let go;
the mountain keeps no anger that the moss does not outgrow.

This is what the waiting’s like, drops of sulphur borne from strife.
Is this what hope can be, blindfolded photon, falling, free.
Strike, wave warm and boldly, collapse into the only,
only one that ever was, feed the growth of fern and moss.
Maybe all of us are alike, alike alone together on this tall, steep hike;
yes, this is what a loop is like.

Clarify, not calcify, let the drop decide.
Knock, and keep your knuckles kind.

جت تصالحنى - مصطفى قمر

Amira Nasef

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