Sitting Under The Vine Of Bacchus Poem by AbdelAziz Alhaider

Under the foot…. or exactly beside the large finger
the celebrated clan were sating in circle that will completes the circle of every things…………. all things
Goddess of wine. Lord of the poetry..., 'says not the sea

Poseidon for the sea and Bacchus the master of all this dark carelessness which slipping to the slop of the rotor time… ... the master of all sweet fruits
I have my own kingdom says the master …. I am sharing all the earth fields the ripening of the vine and the maturity of- the fields smells - under their grapes…..I am maturing the sugar of the summer dreams
Swaying when the heads of poets - with the earthy madness Swaying- with the language barely rise by the tongue that became heavy with the burned perfume
And I go up excited with the lively pictures to the mute of the colors.. and the edges of the bow inhabited by the half bodies...
The blue images clarity of the blue sea... And the sea clarity of the rose
And the black images fear of the sea... and the sea the lungs fire
And Images ………. Images
distilling the juice of my grape by my hands and bloating in the casks.. whistle of pleasure and rhythms of lame circle
and the music of Rhythms
All unshod of the earth are kings- in front of me- wearing their pleasures
And the poets from fragrances of their upper world
I nurse them the purest casks…… the oldest one
But I do not know how to drying drops descending on the clouds Cheeks
when the sons are resorts to their loneliness... crying the lost of world -or- crying their lost in the world
in front of the rock…….the foot we sit down
We filled with our loneliness
We escaped to the slippery slope of the time,
to the abyss of magic
We whom exit from deaths shrouds - ways -to the arousal embroidered with bouquet of colors
spreading - in the spirits....paths of love and gardens full of light
and the songs that exploded the innermost childhood …….
Under the foot…. or exactly beside the face of dark glass
we sit down
the master is dripping from unseen heaven
spirit of grape ripen from of thousands of times
till it became thread for sewing what torn by the age
thread weaving silk for the spirit
Or thread wrapping on the grief
Weaving handkerchief for tears
Drying the face of grief