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Freed... Freed... and Freed Fountains of ecstasy... and modesty and the donkey of the eye Purifies from the deserted graves And from the house of your crying... the falsehood of the mourners Laughs whenever a calamity befalls You walk on the dough and sway, babbling when nostalgia comes to her Oh, girl of the houses of slumber, how is it when the dust of your streets walks Where does one alley search in another? Suffocation and darkness... and freedom I am in you The prisoners blamed me Your silence is the homes of the permissible and the forbidden Your silence when I scatter the doves Your silence on you when the pores awaken And your silence on them... silence and peace Your voice And when you cut the sea In front of the mayor's boats... The back of the Nile is sweaty And the sun is above the rope of clouds You bought the galabiyas of sleep Dry in the west... wet in the east And the rain is like the intercession of Eid... It enters the rooms of every house The wisdom of hunger Explaining to the earth How do you read the broth And before a roof falls on you... the sitting one clears his throat I pass slowly... The henna passerby From the bride's braid And I ascend Take it easy.. The seed and the spirit rise.. And the suns are built Cities of fear.. From the clay of the end of the night And I am in the scaffold of the view.. The cup of insight is heavy Opening the stable of the hollow It passes The horses enter as they please.. How is it fed.. The back of the suspicion carries And I thought of it My suspicion is its suspicion.. Neither the Nile is drowning In the Nile and the night Nor does it have a silent night Singing to the moon The silence hurt me in the sea And the sea silenced me in the pain Oh, daughter of the morning bird.. Where did the country stop? Your love no longer opens the window of bleeding in the silence The countryside of the body - your chest - is like the milk of the hot one They trampled me in you, rare.. And the prophets passed by And prophets are in between.. Sitting in the shade of the fire They trampled me in you, rare And in the infidels' absence.. And the dove of the cave flew They found me dry.. And bitter What is the fault of the skin of the fly.. If they sang about it, it would be a shame Don't you fear God with you.. And all the angels.. Samar Atef Khairi