ASHRAF ABOUL-YAZID

Creative Writer. Journalist. Translator
Journalist for more than 27 years in Egypt, Oman, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia and Korea. Translator of 7 books in art, children literature, poetry and science. Author of more than 35 books of poetry, novels, biographies, criticism, children literature and translations. General Secretary for annual forums in Kuwait and Korea for more than 12 years. Script writer of TV episodes for children for Al-Jazeera Children Ch., and 60 episodes in 2 seasons of “the Other” TV program to interview global figures from +25 countries on Al-Arabi TV Ch. Ediror and art director of cultural magazines in Egypt, Oman, Kuwait and Korea. Writer and photographer of travels across more than 30 countries for the last 2 decades

4.

I tie the stone of silence to my head
And fall,
In the sea of sleep,
Like an anchor splitting
The ocean's breast!


5.

Rising from my head,
The memory of death grows,
To fall in my inkpot.
It makes the passed away people
scattering as letters do
in the wind's hands.

Those are the crossing illusions
In my heart,
I shall never feel calm,
Till my heart puts its anchor
In the skin of darkness.

6.

I tell my daughter a story
Before she sleeps,
But we are always attacked by night
Before the prince of our tale
Meets the lady with the crystal shoe.


7.

Shut the window of the day

in the face of last night's dreams.


To cry behind the curtains
of my forgotten days.

…………………..

Benha*

As a tit on the River Nile breast
Benha sleeps, and pours
Its honey in my dreams.

I wonder, when I come home
If I could remember all its roads?

Or if Benha remembers my face
With the new tired roads
Engraved on it?


(*My town on the River Nile)

Love

When I visited my old school,
And went in my old classroom,
The boy who sat on my old desk,
Did not look like me in my childhood…
Never!

But I loved him!

…………………..

Rain

In the heavy rain
No one feels
A lonely drop.

…………………..


A Street in Cairo



The man who returned home,

In his short break,

Does not have but two days:



A day for his arrival,

And a day for getting ready to the departure.


A day to cry on seeing her,

And a day for her to cry on the farewell scene.


A day to open his arms for friends,

And a day for hugging their mirage.


A day to tell them about the war,

And a day for their tales of the war's victims.


A day for life,

And a day for an eternal death.



The man who returned home,

In his short break, remembers:



When the war started,

They put targets on his eyes,

They closed his mouth with

the tank nozzle,

and how he died before smelling

the gunpowder.




The man who returned home,

In his short break,

Is welcomed by a street in Cairo,

And two sidewalks,

Where he poured in the distance between them

The sands of his exiled deserted body,

Counting the papers burned in

The lost wars,

Under the fire and light poles.



The man who returned home,

In his short break,

Is similar to this street where

The processions of sadness pass,

Leaving noting but pain.

A street in Cairo

Deserted for two thousands years,

Full of dried trees and people,

Filled with a mixture of mud and bones,

But it always looks like a river,

As life looks like death!



The man who returned home,

In his short break,

Is just a street in Cairo,

With balconies of despair,

With lost wars dancing inside him,

With feet sinking in blood and dead bodies,

Those killed ones that sleep in his heart

After finishing their roles in the news.



The man who returned home,

In his short break,

Is seeking a vision

In the hand spread between two cities,

With lines sketched by years,

Made of sands and winds.



The man who returned home,

In his short break, is asking:

"How many last wars will be enough?"
 


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