Anwer Ghani

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THE SAND CITY

I am from there, from the city of sand, a traveler in my heart is the sound of water. I stumble in the seas of my life, only resting at every shore that sings beautiful songs. I am just a memory that came to us from afar, telling us the story of absence. The story of a city that still lives in dusty leaves, and still looks strangely in the mirror. It always told me that aerosol is a strange thing that gives us the illusion of reality, but when we go to sleep, we see it clearly, and we face it face to face, and it tells us its cold stories.
Don't you see this city with its silver hands, holding our breath tight, creating a long line of rocks that dream of faded roads? And this time, how pale and free it is, flies away without return, it laughs mockingly at our bulging eyes. I am not very delusional, but I feel blind, so you find me wandering around that city looking for every unique flower that only the blind can see, and every time I find one, it says to me: Oh, Sand Man; Sometimes to see clearly, you have to be blind. I hear her voice and see her with my heart because I am a blind man.
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Old Land
The old land, heir to the autumn leaves, revolves around itself like a lark whose eggs have been stolen by a dark mirage, so it has become the ghost of a memory that knows no breeze.
It sits in front of me every day, in its dark suit, breathing a sigh of relief. It has become tired of its long journeys, and it has finally come to rest. It is strange how old age, when sorrows have robbed it of its joy, allows it to rest. They took out its soul, hair by hair, and it became dull.
The fresh water of its river was drunk by insolent eyes. And I, that old time, stand among the fresh stories as a pale glass whose hand does not know loyalty. I wish I had returned to my village before the harvest season. I wish I had learned something from the warmth of this land.
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