Ode to my roots

ماذا أنتظر أنا؟

و من يدري؟

ربما أنتظر ذلك المسيح، المنقذ

مهديّي أنا

و أتراجع حينها

فنحن لسنا في ذلك العصر

عصر قيس و ليلى

لا وجود لعنتر

و أنا لست بعبلة

فماذا أنتظر إذا؟

كفاني ٱنتظارا

فالزمن ليس بزمان

فلينتهي عصر الإنتظار

. كفاني..

What am I waiting for?

Who knows really...

Perhaps, waiting for the Christ,

Mine...

Then I hold still

We are not in that era

The one of heroes and lovers

There is no Tristan

And I am not Isolde

So what am I waiting for then?

Enough waiting

As time is no longer time

Let the waiting age end

Enough...

An unheard prayer

They made us hate ourselves and love their wealth happiness.

That is how it goes. I smile at it, seeing that love and hate go hand in hand. I got used to it.

It is true that it is like fire. Looking at it from a distance is fulfilling enough.

The eyes are gazing, looking... searching and researching, with a smile in the face, and a bit of curiosity and impatience. What would happen after the waiting? Keep looking, in and out, unsettled... until the liberation comes... eventually.

We convince ourselves that it is fake. All is fake, because we know it deep down. The standard of happiness changed, and we convince ourselves that we are still looking for the authentic meaning, but we are not. We are all sucked up into the vortex of all these new values. It leaves a bitter taste, we only wish there was a bit of sweet as well.

Is it a song of hope? Not really. Make it an unheard prayer... a prayer from a non-believer, to make it a bit less miserable and a bit more ironic.

They did make us hate ourselves and love their happiness.

"When the dreamer dies, what happens to the dream?"

"What are your dreams", I have been asked.
I didn't dare answer that I dream no longer..
So I simply said... I dream of summer.