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
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.
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
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
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
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
That we’ll not grow up to be
What grown ups tend to be
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