on writing

seriously, I remember when I was six
When writing came mysteriously and made me feel sixty
It understood me, and made my war-torn city heaven
I understood it as the new oppressed people’s weapon

Sun, my beloved

O sun, when will you shine,
your warm days down,
o God! If my beloved were in my arms,
and I in my home town again.

 

weary

He’s weary as Hell
The confusion He’s feeling
Ain’t no tongue can tell
No poet can write

Good Qoutes

False words not only infect people with evil, but they cause schizophrenia that infects mind, heart and soul.

Writing is my ammo, I am ready for battle.

He who has learnt nothing from history has learnt nothing

He who knows a thing knows that he knows nothing, but he who knows nothing thinks he knows everything

I dream

A day when peace rings from the south to the north of the country

A day of peace, kindness, equality and justice for all

A day when we are one people of one land

A day when foreigners can’t divide and rule us

A day when we are all brothers of one nationA day when the blind man walks from south to north, free of dread

A day when everybody sleeps without scare of being killed, tortured or harassed More

My life is tragedy

This morning when I woke up,
I saw the Blue Ocean and white sandy beaches
But around me there is disorder

No matter how early I rise with the sun
Instead of the birds singing before the day’s begun
Russian revolvers chatter louder and louder

Instead of the promise of the morning air
Shooting, shelling, killing are the days here,
The roads to somewhere blocked everywhere More