tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18892362.post4280105837789569955..comments2024-01-11T21:34:04.433+00:00Comments on Tassourt: Like a small cafe - Mahmoud DarwishUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger4125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18892362.post-73737416415032967872012-01-21T14:36:06.934+00:002012-01-21T14:36:06.934+00:00I love this poem. So beautiful how are lives can b...I love this poem. So beautiful how are lives can be like cafes and love ... people coming and going, sometimes staying together ...Coffee Lovehttp://over-coffee.comnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18892362.post-6741003989842501952009-06-06T10:01:14.535+00:002009-06-06T10:01:14.535+00:00yes, let it rain and smile
life,s so short somehow...yes, let it rain and smile<br />life,s so short somehowNina louVehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18075662352280946409noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18892362.post-10615188344443210832009-02-03T19:20:00.000+00:002009-02-03T19:20:00.000+00:00Sometimes people do meet on Strangers Avenue and h...Sometimes people do meet on Strangers Avenue and have their time till the rain stops, sometimes they just pass by under their umbrellas not coming in.<BR/>Let it rain...Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18892362.post-50100761949921279052009-02-03T18:35:00.000+00:002009-02-03T18:35:00.000+00:00This is beautiful. I am reading this Drwish's poem...This is beautiful. I am reading this Drwish's poem for the first time,the translation is good, you can recognize Darwish from the first two lines. Thank you. It reminded me of another his poem about waiting:<BR/><BR/>While waiting<BR/>by Mahmoud Darwish<BR/><BR/>While waiting, I become obsessed with observing<BR/>the many possibilities:maybe she forgot her small<BR/>suitcase on the train, and my address got lost<BR/>and her mobile phone got lost, so she lost her appetite<BR/>and said: No share of the light drizzle for him/<BR/>Or maybe she got busy with an urgent matter or a journey<BR/>to the south to visit the sun, and called<BR/>but didn't find me in the morning, because<BR/>I had gone to buy some gardenia for our evening<BR/>and two bottles of wine/<BR/>Or maybe she was in dispute with her ex-husband<BR/>over matters of memory, and she swore not to see<BR/>another man who might threaten her with making memories/<BR/>Or maybe she crashed into a taxi on the way<BR/>to see me, which extinguished some planets in her galaxy.<BR/>And she is still being treated with tranquilizers and sleep/<BR/>Or maybe she looked in the mirror before going out<BR/>of herself, felt two large pears<BR/>making waves on her silk, then sighed and hesitated:<BR/>Does anyone else other than myself deserve my womanhood/<BR/>Or maybe she ran, by coincidence, into an old<BR/>love she hadn't healed from, and joined him for dinner/<BR/>Or maybe she died,<BR/>because death loves suddenly,like me,<BR/>and death, like me,doesn't love waitingAnonymousnoreply@blogger.com