Alaa Elgadi

Turkish beauty! Let us try to abandon,
Everything and immigrate to London.
I am a Libyan poet and this is my visa,
And you smile prettier than Mona Liza.
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A TALE OF A SNAIL
When I always glimpse the first rain drop,
I think of creeping not standing in the bus stop.
I pack all my house and go out,
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When a poet wonders about a masterpiece,
He begins to travel in time without cease.
“Are you really the Turkish teacher? Pardon! ,
For your wise hazel eyes resemble a poetic garden.
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The coral mountains are natural inns,
Where all giants and elves stay without sins.
The vivid pine trees spectate the play of the sea,
And the red brick houses smoke their pipes with glee.
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Nature illustrates people splendid,
When by it their feelings are suspended.
Th French cafés dress neatly for the dates,
But the English chimneys begin to think of their fates.
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The clock slowly devours time tick after tick,
And I feel extremely homesick.
Every night I sit down midst the blank walls,
Longing for the daily annoying phone calls.
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With a swivel chair,
Glasses and a glare.
With rude conversation
And phrases of temporization
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The sun's threads are the morning's brocade,
And you murmur ' good morning' as a serenade.
Your eyes' symphony makes me walk as a snail,
To look at the notes of your eyelashes' scale.
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People see the autumn as a wretched boy,
For it comes and spoils the earth's joy.
It cuts and rumples the leaves of trees,
And sprays the hush inside the cell of bees.
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I stand up with every great intellect,
Rising for you my appreciation and respect.
I write my love story on the dawn's breeze,
With you and the witness is the scent of lemon trees.
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Through those viewfinders,
Death sent its reminders.
The doves fled away from Big Ben Tower,
When its hands met at that gloomy hour.
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I adore the moon when it is very round,
And your Asian face when you come around.
As a Japanese butterfly, you mesmerize-
My poetic mind and rest on the hedge of my eyes.
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When aesthetics unconsciously serve rationality,
Reality falls in love with the imagination’s personality.
Here I was sitting gladly by Kyrenia harbor alone,
Drunk with meditation scribbling the Corner Restaurant’s tone.
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Oh Allah! What is this perfection! ,
Am I in front of a garden in a fiction? .
About her rosy cheeks,
Phoenicia speaks.
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FRENCH WOMEN IN NICOSIA


It is my aesthetic poetic fate,
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Composed by: Alaa B. Elgadi
21st September,2015
(Famagusta - Cyprus)
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