Heaven for Non-Believers
The record is a journey to the afterlife,
an ex-Muslim experience.
The first track, Heaven for Non-Believers,
is a call from God through the radio:
If the loudness breaks out from the kind people,
we all will be covered under boiling water,
an accusation for the level of insanity
that turns you into a pure atheist.
Hotel in Thailand
I'm seeing you in love,
but the man inside
is ruining me.
Fall Down Wise Man
Welcome me where you enter,
and the greatest honor
is in hell,
telling the teller,
both surrounded
with twisted four branches,
and the breastfed language,
default like a child
distended to write years ago,
waving through the eyes of a ferry
to the meeting point
where afterlife awaits,
where tons of grace awaits.
Open the gates to a kisser
to let them kiss the Repentants.
Allow the Muezzin
to preach against Lucifer,
and the eyes are wet enough
to see the bitter bars.
Destiny was written years ago.
FALL DOWN BEAUTIFIED OPINION
FALL DOWN TO WISEMEN
Beatrice
Written in Italian on the sea in Rimini, this song is a love letter to Dante, who opens the doors to heaven and hell in every culture.
Give me the pen and the book.
Dante died,
but the funeral never stopped.
Our kisses are like the waves,
and the rocks we own.
Meanwhile,
the kites are tied to the minarets.
If there is a knot,
we can fix it.
Who died in Ravenna
can revive in Egypt
.
Jayhano Al Kawahi
Which is the second call
of the unknown.
Tomorrow,
it should come sooner,
coming to you
through the void inside stones,
approaching from the void.
You all, humans,
look similar.
The sunset is lamenting to you
like a master of screams.
Half Year II
Talking about rebirth
in order to die.
In order to leave,
you have to leave a stain.
Why do they insist
that their children give birth?
I'm standing behind the flashing light,
throwing gravel into the ocean.
Telawa
I wish to see the boats
going in the direction
where the magnet
they pull the sails enough
to lead them to al Khanka.
My heart is enough pregnant,
and the Priest is from Mecca
(all preachers are the same).
Without a real meeting,
I offer you my entire self.
Oh, the plates are turning,
causing those sudden waves.
Why the pigeons,
every time they leave me a mark?
Why the pigeons,
despite the goodbyes,
they still call?
Why the pigeons,
despite the goodbyes,
they still call?
The Lord of the Whip
If the city burns,
I will not run.
I will be eager to pour the oil
on my body and run,
easily as slaughter,
then cut the power lines.
Will the frame of my home
be annihilated?
Will the fire make uniforms
into civilian clothes?
The people's scream strikes feeling,
fleeing into prison,
but I will set out
for the lord of the whip
to make him victorious
in my defeat.
Then I will expel
every ideologist,
refuse fear,
and uproot the begetted,
as sullenly
as Christ on the cross.
I will run naked
to the eye that hisses
at the embrace.
I will fall like a vessel burning
in the antelope's well,
then be silent
as the fire goes out,
the people extinguished.
Then I will faint
in the precinct of the gaze,
safe at its center.
If it rains
and the city drowns,
I will not flee,
but I will despair
for the heart of one close to me,
and I will swim beneath him
to lift the ones seeking refuge
up to the surface,
to calm them
with compassion
for the defiant ones on earth,
losers of wars,
heroes with no titles,
who go against bullets,
naked in their beautiful intentions.
I will believe them.
I will bid goodbye
to the crew of this world
and fall like a stone,
chest under armpit,
and will awaken
the beast of Montauk!
I follow them, bathe them,
wash them clean
of early faults.
I rise,
and the cradle above the water
goes distant.
I speed,
and provisions are distributed
to some.
I swim and pass through channels
like thunder.
I refuse the soul's greeting
witnessed by charred bones.
If it freezes,
I will not flee.
I will be eager to pull the thread,
to scatter empty looms,
clattering to the sound
of surfaces falling,
chiseled away from statues
that cannot be carved,
climbed by ice,
as the speech of the people
grows angry,
as a newborn suckles
with clenched cheeks,
leaving the gardens
for the world of numbers
to advise the programmers.
They say he is wrong in his outlook,
one foot in the sacred,
one foot
on the face of the computer.
He runs as the gods of Olympus
rain fire.
He grows,
and the sword flashes insatiable.
He slices
and urges the poets to preach.
Arises his arms open,
awakening to the dangers.
I will run naked
to the eye that hisses
at the embrace.
I will fall like a vessel burning
in the antelope's well,
then be silent
as the fire goes out,
the people extinguished.
Then I will faint
in the precinct of the gaze,
safe at its center.
Farada
Raining lava,
eating away what it crosses
in the shape of an ox's horns.
In the heaviness
of a military costume,
solely facing the judge
in the final court,
in a flaming entrance
inside my own hell.
By ourselves,
individuals,
robots.
The heat of loneliness.
Cellphones
are pieces of wasted metal,
readers of Burda,
keepers of temperature.
By ourselves,
individuals,
robots.