كان ياما كان / روان الحسين

ليلي يا قمري

اكتر حد بكاني ..

ويبقى الحنين عثرة في دروب النسيان

مش ملاحظ حاجه.. ..!

ياحبيبتي حضنك حياه المسيني وكفايه

Bien plus quune nuit (1)

Match to wick, not pain to proof, 
 little light, and then enough.
They called me moth girl, soft in the seams,
 ink on the knuckles, pockets of dreams.
 Windows that hummed, rooms that would tilt,
 sugar on teacups, grapefruit guilt.
 Night was a ladder I climbed without shoes,
 skin learning weather, mind learning bruise.
 Streetlamps were sermons in amber and glass,
 I studied their patience, let heat become pass.
 Flutter, then hover, practice the stay;
 close to the candle, not carried away.

Near is enough, let gentleness aim.
 Warmth is a language, not just a flame.
 Salt makes the sweet; ash steadies the name, 
 love is a glow, not a claim.

Kitchen was midnight, kettle a star,
 breath writing weather on cold cupboard jar.
 I learned the grammar of small alchemy:
 salt of a tear, quicksilver of me.
 Mirror held mercury, pooling its nerve,
 turning my tremor into a curve.
 Stitch after stitch, I sewed up the air,
 hemming the scorch from the edges of care.
 Hands on the table, palms like a bowl, 
 hold without owning, and spare what you hold.

Near is enough, let gentleness aim.
 Warmth, not a weapon; never a blame.
 Let what is tender refuse to be tamed, 
 love is a glow, not a flame.

Storms had a basement under my sleep,
 stairs without railings, memories deep.
 I brought a lantern I built from a tune,
 hummed it at windows, lent it the moon.
 Fear is a furnace when oxygen’s wrong;
 air it with honesty, lower the song.
 Press to the ember until it says stay, 
 listen for crackle that whispers the way.
 Not every fire is meant to be fed;
 some you outwatch; some you out-wed.

Wing to the warmth, don’t marry the spark;
 learn to be golden and leave what is dark.

If the room tilts, sit closer to floor.
 If the past knocks, unlock, not the door.
 Set out a saucer of light and of tea;
 invite the ache, then let it be.
 Name what you’re feeling without the decree;
 let it unwind like wool from a tree.
 If shame throws sulphur, open a pane;
 let the wind answer instead of the brain.
 Practice the practice of kindly delay;
 breathing is mercury learning to stay.

Near is enough, let gentleness aim.
 Warmth turns the splinters into a frame.
 Ash writes a map that doesn’t inflame, 
 love is a glow, not a flame.

Bless every match you choose not to strike.
 Bless every moment you soften the spike.
 Bless the soft lamp and the night-window’s breath,
 bless how you loosen the knot around death.
 Bless how the handle remembers your hand,
 bless what refuses to burn on demand.
(zitar swells; fiddle threads a thin ascending line)

Little one, learn it the way that I learned:
 tend to the candle, not worship the burned.
 Touch with your listening; lean, never clutch;
 glow is a covenant asking not much.
 Lantern your laughter, and lend it to rain;
 kettle your courage for kingdom and lane.
 When you feel tinder disguised as a kiss,
 name it with kindness, then step into this:
 near, but unbroken; warm, but made wise, 
 eyes full of light that doesn’t disguise.

Near is enough, let gentleness aim.
 Love is a shelter, not something to tame.
 Salt, ash, and honey will carry your name, 
 live by the glow, not the flame.

Match to wick, and then release, 
 gold without burning. Go in peace.

انتي اللي عاش قلبي يدور عليك :(

Fajr