Резултати претраге

Baquetas karhak

بقيت كرهاك مش حساك ولا عايزاك تكون ليا
و متهيألي مفهومة حياتي ناهيتها بإيديا
دا ياما شكيت كتير و بكيت ولا حسيت بأوجاعي
جرحت كرامتي بخداعك و جرحك كان ملوش داعي
 
خلاص انساني ما نسيتك انا اسفة اني حبيتك
غلطت عشان انا اديتك حياتي و روحي ملك ايديك
خلاص بجد ندمت على الايام لقيت فيها الوعود اوهام
خلاص مش قابلة اي كلام عشان مش باقية تاني عليك
 
انا مصّره أعيش حرة و مش مضطرة اعيش وياك
فتنساني خلاص احسن لاني بقيت انا نسياك
و عشت معاك بقلب ملاك عشان فكراك حبيب ليا
لقيت الراحة فيك لما تشوف الدمعة ف عينيا
 

Like The Souls

By the walk of this life, I come anew,
I have some memories, knowledge and energy,
As well as desires, aspirations, thoughts and free consciousness,
A walk, very inspired and intelligent... Here, everything is possible.
 
A street so well-known... In another life... Individuals familiar,
Like the souls and like actors, they are dressed in intentional suits.
Like players, who ventured to experiment with big deals,
In the world, where matter and energy are shown to each other in a perfect dance... As such.
 
One very interesting thing: this fire of awakening...
Because everyone has his own way, his faith, his understanding of how to love.
In fact, for the physical world, it is a subtle world of the universe and He is Almighty.
Although, in this absolute ocean, it has its own success, its god, and even its color.
 

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'In search of souls'

My soul is a warehouse. He is full of memories that I cannot remember.
I only know that I have these emotions because I act. I act irrationally
And at times I hate beautiful things and love ugly things. I cannot. I come from the beautiful
Field. I come from silk. I come from the son of the ninth son. I come from the branches.
All of these are my surnames. The principal problem is that I have many souls
And only one warehouse. The warehouse overflows with the bustle of my soul. I can be playing
A little game of chess. I can be drinking a little bit of tea. I can be attending
A wake. The other souls are jealous. Ramos? But why? We are more attractive.
You can hide many things this way. You can hide the truth. You can live in the light of
Darkness. This prohibited light is so beautiful. And I debate. Schizophrenia dwells in my family
But I cannot resist. The argument rises. It rises like the heater. And the arguments
Become more fatalist. With so many souls you cannot die. It is impossible. I am lost
In the warehouse between the wheat and the corn and I forget who I am. People never will tell you the
Truth. The truth is very easy. We need to invite industrial stories. We need
To rhyme and capture the butterflies. In a bed of birdseed I dream. Synesthesia accompanies me.
I contradicted while I corrected because my souls are deceptions . . . When the gloom
Of midnight falls around the confines of my warehouse I cannot see myself. In my
Blind obstinacy I only follow the beats of my heart. They form a music of such elegant
Equations and I lose myself in a world of nostalgias. The soul cannot be classified.
You can classify each little detail of the physiognomy but the visage is not in the details.
The visage is in the body. You need to have a visage to examine another visage and therefore
Yo need a soul to examine another soul. Yet when I examine my soul I don't have a soul!
I am an ephemeral equivalence and I return to life with pressing doubts. I need another soul.
All the souls that I have are mistakes and contradictions. I need a real
Soul. Could it be that we need love? Could it be that love is the solution?
I don't know. I'm still busy with the innumerable numbers that invade my skull . . .