Morning..Darkfall..Night.. Poem by ISMAEL ALLOUSH

three times every day...
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the road was as habit it..
_since we were borne_ miry road...
the beggary was in its eyes..
as the salt on our faces..
A dreamy salt...
it dream wheat..
and blonde braid..as the hyacinthes...
the road of our street was in the morning..
as habit it..without lineaments..miry..a miry road..
in the morning...
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when my eyes face your eyes.. when the darkfall come...
the time does not let any moment for the cogitating..
and frou-frou of trees too..
does not let too...
when your eyes shine with the darkfall..
I can not do any thing..
just sending my angle in sea of your eyes..
and bending over for praying..
as A huntsman loved the aurora...
when your eyes shine..when time of the darkfall coming..
your eyes are be..as habit them..since we met..they embrown the bloods in my veins..deluging me with an billows them..
and I try catching with last floss of drooped sun...
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my mom...
please..
does not ask...
does not ask..about my palish face...
does not ask..about asperity my hands...
I am not that the baby..who is you nurse him...
even I come to your rosy bosom..every night...
for you cultivate under my skin thousand rose..every night...
do not ask me..about fall-out my long hair...
do not ask..about my long beard..I grown it since I forgot smell of milk your breast...
every night...
my mom as habit her..every night..with clothing of prayer..she seats and asks me about my palish face..every night...
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