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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=470993" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Five Letters To My Mother</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=470993" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Good morning sweetheart. <br>Good morning my Saint of a sweetheart. <br>It has been two year mother <br>since the boy has sailed <br>on his mythical journey. <br>Since he hid within his luggage <br>the green morning of his homeland <br>and her stars, and her streams, <br>and all of her red poppy. <br>Since he hid in his cloths <br>bunches of mint and thyme, <br>and a Damascene Lilac. <br>*</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=470993" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I am alone. <br>The smoke of my cigarette is bored, <br>and even my seat of me is bored <br>My sorrows are like flocking birds looking for a grain field in season. <br>I became acquainted with the women of Europe, <br>I became acquainted with their tired civilization. <br>I toured India, and I toured China, <br>I toured the entire oriental world, <br>and nowhere I found, <br>a Lady to comb my golden hair. <br>A Lady that hides for me in her purse a sugar candy. <br>A lady that dresses me when I am naked, <br>and lifts me up when I fall. <br>Mother: I am that boy who sailed, <br>and still longes to that sugar candy. <br>So how come or how can I, Mother, <br>become a father and never grow up. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=470993" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">* <br>Good morning from Madrid. <br>How is the 'Fullah'? <br>I beg you to take care of her, <br>That baby of a baby. <br>She was the dearest love to Father. <br>He spoiled her like his daughter. <br>He used to invite her to his morning coffee. <br>He used to feed her and water her, <br>and cover her with his mercy. <br>And when he died, <br>She always dreamt about his return. <br>She looked for him in the corners of his room. <br>She asked about his robe, <br>and asked about his newspaper, <br>and asked, when the summer came, <br>about the blue color of his eyes, <br>so that she can throw within his palms, <br>her golden coins. <br>*</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=470993" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I send my best regards <br>to a house that taught us love and mercy. <br>To your white flowers, <br>the best in the neighborhood. <br>To my bed, to my books, <br>to all of the kids in the alley. <br>To all of these walls we covered <br>with noise from our writings. <br>To the lazy cat sleeping on the balcony. <br>To the lilac climbing bush the neighbor's window. <br>It has been two long years, Mother, <br>with the face of Damascus being like a bird, <br>digging within my conscience, <br>biting at my curtains, <br>and picking, with a gentle beak, at my fingers. <br>It has been two years Mother, <br>since the nights of Damascus, <br>the odors of Damascus, <br>the houses of Damascus, <br>have been inhabiting our imagination. <br>The pillar lights of her mosques, <br>have been guiding our sails. <br>As if the pillars of the Amawi, <br>have been planted in our hearts. <br>As if the orchards are still perfuming our conscience. <br>As if the lights and the rocks, <br>have all traveled with us. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=470993" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">*<br>This is September, Mother, <br>and here is sorrow bringing me his wrapped gifts. <br>Leaving at my window his tears and his concerns. <br>This is September, where is Damascus? <br>Where is Father and his eyes. <br>Where is the silk of his glances, <br>and where is the aroma of his coffee. <br>May God bless his grave. <br>And where is the vastness of our large house, <br>and where is its comfort. <br>And where is the stairwell laughing at the tickles of blooms, <br>and where is my childhood. <br>Draggling the tail of the cat, <br>and eating from the grape vine, <br>and snipping from the lilac. <br>** <br>Damascus, Damascus, <br>what a poem we wrote within our eyes. <br>What a pretty child that we crucified. <br>We kneeled at her feet, <br>and we melted in her passion, <br>until, we killed her with love.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Nizar+Qabbani">Nizar Qabbani</a></strong></div>