Death....

every morning...
and every day....
the death entered to y room...
and sit down on my favorite chair...
and look attentively at me...
trying to be hearty with him...
and gave him some of my cigarettes...
but he always turn away, by his hand, ,
and never talked to me....

so, ...
i smoke alone...
then we go away to our memories, ..
by talking to my self...
go away to our history, which left...
sure not a great history, ..
but maybe it was effective...
but we talk in...
and we still in that all the day...
playing in my memories, ..
and in my dreams...
and sure in my mind too, ...
till, while a night come again...
and then, left me alone in my that room...

i don`t know what is that...
but sure he lets me write..
and for that, , ,
i should write every morning a new poem...

by hazem al jaber

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