ـ "... إن فى الإنسان منطقة عجيبة سحيقة لا تصل إليها الفضيلة ولا الرذيلة ، ولا تشع فيها شمس العقل والإرادة ، ولا ينطق لسان المنطق ، ولا تطاع القوانين والأوضاع ، ولا تتداول فيها لغة أو تستخدم كلمة ... إنما هى مملكة نائية عن عالم الألفاظ والمعاني ... كل مافيها شفاف هفاف يأتي بالأعاجيب فى طرفة عين ... يكفي أن ترن فى أرجائها نبرة ، أو تبرق لمحة ، أو ينشر شذا عطر ، حتى يتصاعد من أعماقها فى لحظة من الإحساسات والصور والذكريات ، ما يهز كياننا ويفتح نفوسنا على أشياء لا قبل لنا بوصفها ، ولا بتجسيدها ، ولو لجأ إلى أدق العبارات و أبرع اللغات ... " ـ

توفيق الحكيم

Within man lies a deep wondrous spot, to which neither virtue nor vice can reach. Upon which the sun of reason and will never rises. In which the mouth of logic never speaks, the laws and rules are never obeyed, and not a language is used nor a word is ever spoken.
It is a distant Kingdom, beyond words and meanings. With everything is a sheer murmur offering wonders in a blink. From the depths of which, suffice a single tone or a flash of mind or a scent of a perfum, to allow rise of emotions, pictures and memories, a rising that will shake our being and open ourselves to things we can neither describe nor materialize even if we used the most refined of phrases or the most skillful of languages.

Tawfiq Al-Hakim.
(My humble transalation of the arabic text)

Monday, December 24, 2007

Warm Wet Circles , Marillion




On promenades where drunks propose to lonely arcade mannequins...
Where ceremonies pause at the jewelers shop display...
Feigning casual silence in strained romantic interludes...
Till they commit themselves to the muted journey home,
And the pool player rests on another cue...
Last night's hero picking up his dues,
A honeymoon gambled on a ricochet...
She's staring at the brochures at the holidays...
Chalking up a name in your hometown...
Standing all your mates to another round...
Laughing at the world till the barman wipes away the warm wet circles,
The warm wet circles,

I saw teenage girls like gaudy moths,
A classrooms shabby butterflies,
Flirt in the glow of stranded telephone boxes;
Planning white lace weddings from smeared hearts and token proclamations,
Rolled from stolen lipsticks across the razored webs of glass...
Sharing cigarettes with experience...
With her giggling jealous confidantes,
She faithfully traces his name...
With quick bitten fingernails,
Through the tears of condensation...
That'll cry through the night...
As the glancing headlights of the last bus...
Kiss adolescence goodbye.

In a warm wet circle...
Like a mother's kiss on your first broken heart,
A warm wet circle...
Like a bullet hole in central park,
A warm wet circle...
And I'll always surrender ... to the warm wet circles.

She nervously undressed in the dancing beams of the Fidra lighthouse,
Giving it all away before it's too late,
She'll let a lover's tongue move in a warm wet circle,
Giving it all away and showing no shame,
She'll take a mother's kiss on her first broken heart...
A warm wet circle,
She'll realise that she played her part ... in a warm wet circle

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