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There is poetry as soon as we realize that we possess nothing.

يوم غريب
الشمس تغرب
و الشمعة مبتسحش
بس اللي أغرب
صوت النبي في وداني
قزاز ملون
بطني بتتقطع
قلق الأبطال
ولا بقر مطمن
و ألاقي نفسي فالبلكونة
بندور عالملكوت
و بندول إيقاعنا مابيقفش
إلا لما بتبصلي
و باصلي على صوتك
النسكافيه برد
و إحنا لسه فسنة تانية
طب ماتيجي نرجع لورا
يمكن فالفوضي ألاقيك
إقطع بقى يا نور
أنا شايفة كل اللي نفسي أشوفه.

rupikaur:

love - rupi kaur

(via rupikaur)

                                 The moon shall miss the sun
                                            If it were gone
                              But the sun shan’t miss the moon
                                             For too soon
                                            Another voice
                                  Would rejoice with his light
                                       As the moon sleeps
                                    And weeps, out of sight.

Sticks and stones

Long bones and afternoon tea

Wide grins and sincere whims

That he is to me.

If I were to be asked

Why I so madly love him

I would say 

That he is as quiet as me. 

And as that is

All that there is to suggest

That we were made of the same music,

I am a recluse and he is my moon.

Should we part one day

It shall be

As night serves day

And silence to sound,

Forever bound

To the magic that is our love.

Every thought reorders the universe

William Stafford (via awakenaslove)

(via justbreeeaathe)