poem
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On the surface of time travel, we can only see mere delusions. The nerves of imagination pulse and vibrate with extraordinary thoughts. Life is as stern and real as ever at the same time. And curious dark residues condense and precipitate. …The Self closed itself in against the night.
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Words always have a simple hiss in the distance. But their potency, magnitude and sheer odours expose the world and its receding tides. …Some are attacked in the dark.
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My breath made no sound. But I knew this was not invisible. Voices thundered in my ears and my eyes grew conscious of the Truth that lay outside of me. This is the unconscious. Humbled. …Do you think an explanation would help?
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Love is light with the darkest heart. A great hole knocked in the bottom. There’s an exchange of energy there. Where the waves and the shores give birth to a sun beyond the horizons. And a searing blaze comes to us for strength. …It would not resist or even protest.
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There is no note of sacrifice in a voice that brings on singing spells. And the night seems a little less dark, and to the West, there is a lightning in the sky. It throws a hard shadow into the mountain cleft. And the sleepers stir in their bed and awaken. Ochre yellow concentration aimed…
Hadi Atallah 