Swing

Swing



Swing of childhood that stopped in the point of surprising punched point
O swing .. expanded from the depth of the poem with which shaking hand I can hold your ropes?
your ropes that did not stop dancing in the gardens of the scorched heart
They are birds that ached me ... digging mercilessly in my old memory

with which trembled hands I can fragile them?
.
If I want ????? Do I want???

Swing of childhood oh most beautiful poems

coated by pour cloudless colors of blue, red, bloody, velvet green with pens and boxes

Play a jumping memory game

I have not seen the rabbit yet, but the cat that is meows at the other side of the waterway

The other side ... Under the Mulberry

Is she afraid of water like me????

But I smelling a hot fragrant... from exhale of the waterway which tempted to throw the hook all the time

Close to the thymus …far for the time ..

I set up a hammock for the exercise of ritual feast, but it is still shaking all seasons

Hey, trembled hand

It is not useful to evading… not useful to pretending senility….. in fact… you have no existent

Swing is shakens it self

It self for it self

Abdul Aziz Alhaider(originally in Arabic)

20/07/2009

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