Name: أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]
Author: louis yako

أنا زهرة برية [I Am A Wildflower]

مؤلف:	Louis Yako
قسم:	الحرب البرية [تعديل]
اللغة:	الإنجليزية
الناشر:	دار النهضة العربية
تاريخ الإصدار:	01 يناير 2016
الصفحات:	107
ترتيب الشهرة:	351,794 رقم 1 هو الأشهر !
رابط مختصر:	نسخ
المزيد من الكتب مثل هذا الكتاب

مراجعات ( 0 )

اقتباسات ( 12 )

التحميل غير متوفر

وصف الكتاب

Contemporary Arabic poetry.

زهرة برية الهمزية في مدح خير البرية الثغور البرية الإسلامية أنا زهرة برية زهرة برية سلسلة زهور برية انتى برية سنجار فرس في برية الليل أنا أحب الحيوانات البرية لارا زهرة البراري السيرة الغيرية لزهرات برية مواقف جاهلية مع خير البرية البرية من روائع المسرح الصيني خير البرية و الألطاف الالهية تحذير البرية من النصيريه العلوية صارخا في البريه قطف الزهرة البرية برية سين برية بن عمر بن سفينة فتح رب البرية بتخليص الحموية

أنا زهرة برية

زهرة برية - سلسلة زهور

أزهار برية

أزهار برية شعر / 1940-1948

أزهار بريّة

أزهار برية

تغطرست وتجملت كونها زهرة الجدران

ازهار برية-عبد الله كنون

زهرة وسط شوك الصحراء

زهر بري

المزيد مع أغلفة الكتب

اقتباسات كتاب "أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]"

الأعلى تقييماً

الأحدث

اقتبس

I dedicate these poems to all the people who were prematurely cut from their times and places. To each human soul that wilted and lost its fragrance in exile.

نِقاش

NoorBook

They say: there is time for love and time for death... I say: we don't realize it's time for love Until it is almost time to die...

نِقاش

NoorBook

Under this pine tree I let you down and you let me down. Under this tree, you betrayed me and I betrayed you. Right here, I forgot you and you forgot me. Under this pine that they call 'evergreen' we both discovered that nothing lasts forever.

نِقاش

NoorBook

Exhaustion Salima sat in the fancy hotel room In the evening time. Here she is again in another foreign city, Attending a conference discussing “human rights”. Her eyes roamed the room. She suddenly felt a severe chill in her body. She suddenly realized that she is exhausted, But her exhaustion is not that of one day, It was one of a lifetime! It fell upon her abruptly. The thoughts of the bygone years Nested in her head, Were suddenly awoken. One thought after another. She realized at that moment That she is tired of responding to The same absurd questions About her origins Her ethnicity, Her religion, Her hobbies, Her favorite foods, Her education background, Her age, And her occupation. Questions asked frequently by people who don’t care. She suddenly realized That throughout her life, She never found a friend who could really understand. The evening was about to draw its dark curtains. She remembered that ever since she was a child, She had been hiding her favorite words and writings In notebooks that nobody will read. She has been murmuring her favorite tunes, In places where nobody could hear her. The evening was about to draw its dark curtains. She realized that her true thoughts and feelings Lived nowhere expect inside of her head, And there they will most likely die. Her head had become like a prison for her thoughts. The evening was about to draw its dark curtains. She suddenly realized That she had wasted so many years of her life Looking for someone who might understand. And each time she thought she had found one, She found herself in yet another prison. She looked through the window of the fancy hotel room And saw that the darkness had covered the entire city. September 9, 2017

نِقاش

NoorBook

The Problem The problem I have, my friends, is too complicated. It is not only that I no longer have a home, Or a roof over my head. It is that I no longer wish to have one. I confess to you; however, that Even if I wished to have a place to call home, My wish would be impossible to realize, Because I have been erased from everywhere. Yes, the mercenaries And those who worship the dollar notes, Under the names of religions and ideologies, Have erased me from history. They have revised and rewrote my story. Everywhere I go, I find them lurking and waiting for me, To blockade me, To suffocate me, And to steal from my mouth The few crumbs of bread I have left. And so, I repeat, my friends, My problem is too complicated. I don’t have a home, I no longer want a home, And I couldn’t have a home to shelter me, Even if so I wished in my wild dreams. June 1, 2017

نِقاش

NoorBook

Photographs from Distant Places (1) In distant villages, You always see the same scenes: Farms Cattle Worship spaces Small local shops. Just basic the things humans need To endure life. (2) ‘Can you stay with me forever?’ She asked him in the airport, While hugging him tightly in her arms. ‘Sorry, I can’t. My flight leaves in two hours and a half.’ He responded with an artificially caring voice, As he kissed her on her right cheek. (3) I was walking in one of Bucharest’s old streets, In a neighborhood that looked harshly beaten by Time, And severely damaged by development and globalization. I saw a poor homeless man Combing his dirty hair In a side mirror of a modern and expensive car! (4) The shape and the color of the eyes don’t matter. What matters is that, As soon as you gaze into them, You know that they have seen a lot. All eyes that dare to bear witness To what they have seen are beautiful. (5) A stranger asked me how I chose my path in life. I told him: ‘I never chose anything, my friend.’ My path has always been like someone forced to sit In an airplane on a long flight. Forced to sit with the condition Of keeping the seatbelt on at all times, Until the end of the flight. Here I am still sitting with the seatbelt on. I can neither move Nor walk. I can’t even throw myself out of the plane’s emergency exit To end this forced flight! (6) After years of searching and observing, I discovered that despair’s favorite hiding place Is under business suits and tuxedos. Under jewelry and expensive night gowns. Despair dances at the tables where Expensive wines of corruption And delicious dinners of betrayal are served. (7) Oh, my poet friend, Did you know that The bouquet of fresh flowers in that vase On your table is not a source of inspiration or creativity? The vase is just a reminder Of a flower massacre that took place recently In a field Where these poor flowers happened to be. It was their fate to have their already short lives cut shorter, To wither and wilt in your vase, While breathing the not-so-fresh air In your room, As you sit down at your table And write your vain words. (8) Under authoritarian regimes, 99.9% of the population vote for the dictator. Under capitalist ‘democratic’ regimes, 99.9% of people love buying and consuming products Made and sold by the same few corporations. Awe to those societies where both regimes meet to create a united vicious alliance against the people! To create a ‘nation’ Of customers, not citizens! (9) The post-revolution leaders are scavengers not hunters. They master the art of eating up The dead bodies and achievements Of the fools who sacrificed themselves For the ‘revolution’ and its ideals. Is this the paradox and the irony of all revolutions? (10) Every person is ugly if you take a close look at them, And beautiful, if you take a closer look. (11) Just as wheat fields can’t thrive Under the shadow of other trees, Intellectuals, too, can’t thrive under the shadow Of any power or authority. (12) We waste so much time trying to change others. Others waste so much time thinking they are changing. What a waste! October 20, 2015

نِقاش

NoorBook

The Cats in the City Location: an Arab city. Time: the age of defeat. The twenty-first century. General atmosphere: “fancy” neighborhoods. Expensive houses painted in tombstone colors. Beautiful and well-maintained gardens. Flowers that no one dares to smell. Imported cars. Imported devices. Imported clothes. Imported foods. Endless consumer shops for anything and everything. Between every other restaurant, there are shops selling cosmetics and souvenirs. Between every other consumer market, There is a worship place. All consumer shops are built skillfully On the scab of the same old wound; A wound that can flood the city with blood and death With the slightest fingernail scratch. As I walk farther from the city, The consumer shops vanish. The lights are suddenly dimmed. The cheering and the hustle and bustle of the consumers go silent. I see myself in total darkness. I am alone hearing nothing but the sounds of my footsteps, And the meows of hungry stray street cats, Covered with the ashes of daily existence. A thin and hungry cat approaches me, She meows in despair and starvation, Begging me for her bite of the day (or the week?) I throw her a small piece of my sandwich. She picks it up and runs away To celebrate her temporary gains! She leaves me alone wondering in darkness: What reflects the reality of this city more The 'fancy' neighborhoods I saw earlier, Or the starving cats in the darkness? June 8, 2014

نِقاش

NoorBook

The Meaning of 'Home' As I travel from one city to another From one country to another From one sorrow to another, I encounter thousands of faces: In streets, shops, parks, and cafés. They all ask me the same painful question: 'Where are you from?' As if they know, I am from a place that lost itself and lost me On a long, cold, and sad winter night. They ask me: 'What is your country known for?' I tell them: 'My country is known for exporting sad stories, refugees, and displaced people. All those who were cursed by being born in it.' Similar questions continue to be asked in cocktail parties, In hypocritical and mediocre gatherings, In conferences and boring meetings. Some pretentiously ask me: 'How do you define "home"?' I respond with Ghassan Knafani’s words ringing in my ears: 'Home is for all of this not to happen.' April 19, 2014

نِقاش

NoorBook

The Eternal Friends The three eternal friends, Time, Loneliness and Death, met at a small old café. 'You won’t last long. I will destroy you at the end,' said Time to Loneliness. 'And I will drain every minute and every second in your life. Nothing will give you joy no matter what you do or how hard you try,' Loneliness responded. After a short silence, once Death pronounced its sentence, Loneliness vanished and Time passed. June 20, 2013

نِقاش

NoorBook

The Vase The bouquet of flowers in the vase is two weeks old, Or maybe a little older? They are all wilted and dead now. The scene is much like a mass grave, Each flower has died in its own way. The first flower—the biggest in the bunch— Opened as widely as it could. Each of its petals dried up. The second one seemed as though it had tried To bend itself towards the end of her life, It broke her neck as she dried in silence. The third flower tried to close after opening, As she felt her life was coming to an end. She died closed. The fourth flower looked like she had started to sacrifice herself For the sake of everyone else around her. She, too, dropped most of her petals, And died naked, except for one or two petals. The fifth flower didn’t have time to open, Or perhaps she realized the futility of opening up in such a tight vase. She also wilted and dried prematurely and half-opened. The sixth flower died very young, Before having a chance to bloom. The colorless water in the vase is now yellowish and dead. Yes, waters die too. For colorless waters, death can be colorful. April 12, 2013

نِقاش

NoorBook

Waiting She caught herself waiting by her bedroom window. A window facing a quiet street, where a car or two passed occasionally. Otherwise, it was a motionless place. The tree branches outside danced Whenever the winds flirted with them. Although she habitually sat by that window every day, for years and years, She never noticed her habit until today! When she realized that, she felt heart sick and upset. She didn’t know whether she was angry at herself Or at the time she had wasted waiting. What upset her even more Was that she wasn’t waiting for any person to arrive, Not even for the postman Who no longer brought her any personal letters. She was not waiting for a lover A friend Or for parents. All those she once loved are long gone. What was she waiting for all these years? She asked herself this question a thousand times that day, And she waited for her inner voice to answer. She must know today! It suddenly occurred to her that Since she was a child, She was waiting for the arrival of a person Who she could never name or describe. She could never put a body or a face On their ambiguous figure. It was a person who only visited her imagination In the form of a shadow. She realized that all her life, She was yearning for something that she couldn’t name, And thus, she remained waiting, Wishing to find out one day What or who she was waiting for. February 9, 2013

نِقاش

NoorBook

We must revolt against the malicious and political game of ‘revolution’ as we know it today. According to this game, revolution is nothing but the transfer of pain from one group of people to other less fortunate and wretched groups. According to this political game, ‘revolution’ is merely imposing injustice on new groups of people. According to dirty politicians, ‘revolutions’ are just moving privilege from one elite to another.

نِقاش

NoorBook

عرض المزيد

كتب أخرى مثل "أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]"

غير متاح

أنا زهرة برية

لويس ياقو

غير متاح

أنا زهرة برية

لويس ياقر

زهرة برية - سلسلة زهور

شريف شوقي

غير متاح

أزهار برية

احسان عباس

غير متاح

أزهار برية شعر / 1940-1948

احسان عباس

(1)

أزهار بريّة

نجمة سليمان

(1)

أزهار برية

كيمبرلي فريمان

غير متاح

تغطرست وتجملت كونها زهرة الجدران

Stephen Chbosky

غير متاح

قطف الزهرة البرية

جمال أبو حمدان

غير متاح

أزهار لبنان البرية

مصطفى نعمة

غير متاح

لارا.. زهرة البراري

إبراهيم أحمد

غير متاح

زهرة اللوتس

لينا بو بركة

إخفاء الملكية الفكرية محفوظة لمؤلف الكتاب المذكور
فى حالة وجود مشكلة بالكتاب الرجاء الإبلاغ من خلال أحد الروابط التالية:
بلّغ عن الكتاب أو من خلال التواصل معنا

الكتب الإلكترونية هي مكملة وداعمة للكتب الورقية ولا تلغيه أبداً بضغطة زر يصل الكتاب الإلكتروني لأي شخص بأي مكان بالعالم.
قد يضعف نظرك بسبب توهج الشاشة، أدعم ناشر الكتاب بشراءك لكتابه الورقي الأصلي إذا تمكنت من الوصول له والحصول عليه فلا تتردد بشراءه.
أنشر كتابك الآن مجانا

اقتباسات الكتب أنا زهرة برية I Am A Wildflower

أنا زهرة برية [I Am A Wildflower]

وصف الكتاب

اقتباسات كتاب "أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]"

كتب أخرى مثل "أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]"

أنا زهرة برية

أنا زهرة برية

زهرة برية - سلسلة زهور

أزهار برية

أزهار برية شعر / 1940-1948

أزهار بريّة

أزهار برية

تغطرست وتجملت كونها زهرة الجدران

قطف الزهرة البرية

أزهار لبنان البرية

لارا.. زهرة البراري

زهرة اللوتس

أقسام الكتب

مؤلفو الكتب

اقتباسات الكتب أنا زهرة برية I Am A Wildflower

أنا زهرة برية [I Am A Wildflower]

وصف الكتاب

شارك الكتاب :

اقتباسات كتاب "أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]"

كتب أخرى مثل "أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]"

أنا زهرة برية

أنا زهرة برية

زهرة برية - سلسلة زهور

أزهار برية

أزهار برية شعر / 1940-1948

أزهار بريّة

أزهار برية

تغطرست وتجملت كونها زهرة الجدران

قطف الزهرة البرية

أزهار لبنان البرية

لارا.. زهرة البراري

زهرة اللوتس

أقسام الكتب

مؤلفو الكتب