عّلم احباب قلبي الاولين .

ياللي جمالك ماله حدود ' محمد ال دلبج 🤍

‎⁨ياحمد في حبها⁩

- راح وقفىّ في طريقه ): .

سطى حبك بقلبي - سلطان البريكي

"زين العذارىَ في رقبتهـا قـلاده🌷

قربي-لي-بضمش-ارحم-ابيش-وامش🤎

يا عاذلين الهوى - صالح آل مانعه ، حمد الطويل -

swing swing,
 sing sing,
 all about the coming spring.
 thawing melting snow and bloom,
 in our little afternoon.
 Cup of hearts,
 you gently fill,
 dear brigthest daffodil.

 Had I a chart,
 for this now,
 our time apart.
 I'd plot a line from,
 where you are to my heart.
 I would start walking,
 walking the way home.
 Familiar landmarks of all,
 we have known.
 Clickity heels and golden bricks,
 no quick-fix on this narrow road,
 no profecies has been foretold,
 Just step by step on these squares of gold.
Oh but whom do I find a head my weary boots,
 a ragedy saint in cahoots,
 join me in a out tiny toots.
 Seems this one has lost his heart,
 there only remaining broken parts.
come with me david,
 take up a leek like a sword,
 let us keep marching toward,
 towards across the hill and vale.
 across wind and gale.

 away away we must,
 lonely little wanderlust,
 Come away, O human child!
 To the waters and the wild,
 With a saint, hand in hand,
 For the world's more full of weeping,
 than you can understand.

 Further down this yellow lane,
 through Risca mist and rain,
 I hear a flock of tangled thoughts,
 like swallows in a brain.
 Perched upon a fence of wire,
 little Coco made of hay,
 says, “My head’s a house with broken doors,
 and guests that will not go away.”
He sees colours dripping off the sky,
 voices blooming in the coal-tip shade,
 pages of a life half-scribed,
 ink that runs but won’t quite fade.
 “Friend,” I say, “your spinning mind
 is still a field where seeds can fall.
 Walk with us and lend your straw,
 we’ll share the weight of it all.”
So shoulder to shoulder, three a-breast,
 through the hedgerow’s whispered talk,
 we stitch the fraying seams of sense
 with every mile we walk.

 Heart lost, mind crossed,
 boots muddy with the cost,
 still we follow where the road believes,
 through every crack the light still weaves.

 So raise, raise what we saved,
 for the wounded and the brave,
 Raise your cup to what survived,
the gold that learned to breathe.
 From rusted tin and tattered straw,
 to a lion who forgot his roar,
 we’ll drink to every trembling hand
 that still refuses to leave.

 On the ridge where coal smoke thins,
 and valleys fold like violin strings,
 there stands Bran, a shrinking giant,
 in a coat that used to fit his wings.
 Pint glass shaking in his paw,
 eyes fixed on his weathered shoes,
 he says, “In this small and foreign land,
 I’m always scared of what I’ll lose.”
Once he strode from peak to peak,
 dragon clouds beneath his feet,
 now he’s staring at the pub-room floor,
 dodging every stranger’s seat.
 So I slip a daffodil in his cuff,
 a tiny torch for his belief,
 say, “No one measures height in here,
 we just measure shared relief.”

 Heart patched, mind matched,
 courage gently re-attached,
 round this battered oaken table,
 we’re as tall as we are able.

 So raise, raise what we’ve known,
 for the hills that shaped our bones,
 raise your cup to what survived,
the gold that learned to breathe.
 From Cardiff Bay to Risca rain,
 to every cracked and chiming vein,
 we’ll drink to every storm we rode
 and every night we grieved.

 Green glass letters on the door,
 emerald glow across the floor,
 brush on snare and old jazz chord,
 no great and powerful wizard,
 just a kind and tired Lord
 of the barstools, pulling pints,
 wiping tears with Friday nights.
Saint David laughs, his tin ribs ring,
 Coco hums a crooked swing,
 Bran leans back, his shoulders wide,
 finding space for his old pride.
 No decree and no grand spell,
 just friends who’ve walked each other’s hell,
 and in the clatter, low and warm,
 we learn the shape of being re-born.

 Oh, raise, raise what we’ve kept,
 all the times we almost wept,
 Raise your cup to what survived,
the gold that learned to breathe.
 To every mind that lost its map,
 every heart held shut with strap,
 we’ll drink until the band plays soft,
 and lay our burdens underneath.

veig

يا زين وقف دقيقه - سلطان البريكي _نايف المصعبي

وينهم اخبارهم لـ سلطان_البريكي

قربي-لي-بضمش-ارحم-ابيش-وامش🤎

وجدان العجمي