The colour of wheatfields (Full story)

A matter of importance


Tiny little flower growing in the dry land

The only green shade in the desert

How did it find a way in this arid empty place

To emerge from the sand?


Perhaps it’s here to be noticed by the little prince

When he falls down.

When he can’t stand anymore

And this beautiful flower comforts his soul that is sore.


This flower is like a rose

But it doesn’t have thorns

And it is strong.


Perhaps it lives thanks to the prince’s tears

They must be like a symbiosis.

Otherwise this tiny flower.

How could it conquer the desert?

How did it manage

Despite the heat

Despite the dryness

To appear and soothe this little prince’s sadness?


And it’s fragile

Which may be why

The little prince will cry

So that the flower doesn’t go.


There might never be any other plant in the desert

The flower must know that maybe

It will always be alone on the dry sand.

With a prince that often cries

But not always

But that doesn’t mean that the flower will die.


Whoever can find themselves in the flower

Must know that they have a place

And as tiny as it can be

What’s essential is that they were able to make their way through the rocks

To emerge from the dust of a dry heart

They brought life to a place no one thought they had a chance.


They are a matter of importance.



وردة الأمير الصغير

هو مشتاق لألوانك

هو مشتاق لك

The disaster of empathy


Drops running on a string

I get wet even with the sun shining

Selfless desires and shared feelings

I know when you’re not scared and I know when you should be.


I can see you headed for the wasp nest and can already feel the stings.

You haven’t yet climbed the tree

And I can see you falling.


I guess the waterfall from the sounds of the river.

I hear the spark of a fire, I already smell the woods burning.

I see the bones under your flesh, I see the wolves eating.

The blood moon that foreshadows a disaster.

Two sides of one story


The child that flies away, soaring into the sky

From love and happiness, his desire for life that makes his tears dry

To end up being astray, will soon be gone

This urge to destroy himself, leaving his body lifeless

He will be, now letting himself be happy

Wrong, is not an option I’m sorry

About the flower, the love and beauty that she is

She doesn’t need contemplation, hides underneath these lies

But he contemplates her and gives her attention, a fact we can know for sure it is

He will never hear the echo on the river, that he is not special to her eyes

She means it when she says “I love you”, untamed child among the other children

That is not true, no reason to be mistaken.

They go hand in hand


Precious liquor of life providing peace and lingering pleasure.

On an open wound, alleviates a pain, often oozes in an atypical texture.

Inside your vulnerable heart, it infuses vigor and strength, it ignites, voracious fire.

No end, not even any side effects, nice enslavement to a natural elixir you desire.

The other shade


Plot twist.

Go back to the matter of importance

Go back to the previous stories and their apparent innocence.


In some verses you can hear the snake

As it watches over their head

Ready to bring them to a grim fate.

This sinister sound that soon will saturate your soul

That’s been concealed in the lines, slithering in the sand, hiding in its hole.


Go back to these stories, maybe you’ll notice the threat

Because it is also living in the desert

That is not such an empty place

The other green shade in this land

Seeking to break the connection between the little prince and the flower.

To bring silence.

To make the prince fret.

To put the rose at stake.


So she’s not alone after all

So this story is not perfect

But it remains special.


Now read the stories again.

Can you hear it?

I bet you can.

The blight


We all missed something.



He was so afraid of losing the rose

The little prince completely forgot to take care of the tree

That was dying on his planet

Because he let the blight spread

Now the elder almost stands dead.




With skin now as hard as scales.


It wasn’t the flower that needed his attention

It was the tree all along.


It looked so deeply rooted in the ground

But he should have guessed the distress behind its peaceful sound

When the wind blew between the branches.

Eyes that never set on its shiny leaves

Deprived of consideration, this beautiful tree

That’s being consumed on the inside

Will soon fall to its demise.


It was in the desert all along

In this so called empty place

It was a green shade here to guide him

Even when light was dim

He, who chose to be blind

He, who only cared about his own mind.


How could it be?

Who could believe that trees needed watering?

Who could believe that something so big and solid could be falling?


They’re taken for granted

But trees can die

And fall over you

Especially when they grow on sick roots.


Trees can get tired of your selfishness

Your silent grins

Your words that drown

And your carelessness.


The prince was lamenting

But there were colors all along.

Now it will fall and smash him on the ground

That’s what happens when you forget about the things that matter

When the tree grows fruit

Each one more bitter than the other.


When you are its blight.


You know what they say

Trees can never be seeds again

But remember that you’re responsible for what you tame

Maybe things don’t have to stay the same.

The forgotten colors I


كُل وردة عندها ألْوَان جميلة

حمر، زرق، صفر أولا فنيدي

تا يولي الوقت فَاتح ملي كَيتلاقى قلبي مع رَوَائح جديدة

.ملي مكينش صداح في مخي


البارح بكيت، اليوم كنشطح

كل نهار يقْدَر يكون غامق أولا فاتح

ولكن مع الشمس عند بشرتي و القمر في ذهني


.و كنستحق نحلم

The forgotten colors II


لَم تَكُن مَسَألة حَيَاةٍ أو مَوتٍ

لَم تَكُن قِصة عن حُبٍ و حُلْمٍ مَخِيفٍ

أحْلامٌ تَجَاهَلَهَا الأمِير

عن الأحَاسِيس التي أهْمَلْنَاها حِينَما كُنَّا صِغاراً

.الشَخْص الذي لَن نَكونَ أبَداً


أحْلام في اللَيلة

.وَلَكِن الشَمسَ عند الفَجْرِ ضَياءٌ لِلظُلْمة

و لَيسَ لَدَيهِ أحَدٌ مَن يَتَكَلَّمُ مَعَهُ

و تَمُوتُ الشَجْرةُ

.و لا نَعْرِفُ أينَ وردتهُ


لَعَلَّ هذه القِصة عن أميرٍ صَغيرٍ

يُرِيد أن يَعْثُرَ على نَفْسِهِ

.في عَالمٍ كَبيرٍ




What have grown ups grown to be

Shattered dreams

Pain caused by reality.


« I was a fool, I should have stayed on my planet »

Said the little prince, eyes filled with a bit of regret

« I should have guessed the little tricks hiding in my fiction,

I was unable to understand anything,

I was unable to show my affection. »


« Shattered mirror

That I lingered on

Waiting for the image to grow clearer

And forgetting everything what was around.


Not seeing the trees and the water

Focused on the desert of my heart

Missing out.


I call upon life to have mercy for my soul

I  hope for the pieces to make the image once more whole. »


For the little prince hides beneath his childish features

A darkness, pain that fights with pleasures

Mind seizures.


Weight when he wakes up

Like a trunk, a rotten trunk

Or a stone, a boiling red stone

Pulling him down each time he stands up.


A beautiful story

Written on pages that cut

Paper that makes you see

The blood from a scar that doesn’t want to shut.


And they call this a fairy tale

And you’re sold

You only saw the shell

And believed the thousand words

That are not empty nor are they lies

But they’re not the whole story

They don’t tell about dreams and loosened ties.


The grass spreads but its colour remains unseen

though everyone knows it is a shade of green

And the hair will not always be golden like the wheatfields

The same goes for a soul that’s been trapped behind the shields

Scared to wake up this repressed child who’s been alone

Though the spectacles through which he sees life

Reveal the shades of the soft core inside the stone.


And the last thing he told himself before going on this journey

“Nothing can ever be the same

For when I see the sun turning red

It’ll remind me of the rose I tamed

when I see the clouds in the sky

I’ll hear you either laugh or cry

When I see the desert sand

I’ll think of the tone of your skin

And touching the ground will feel like holding your hand.”



But still full of beauty

And hope

That we’ll not grow up to be

What grown ups tend to be


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