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Arabic Poetry Quotes

Browse 110 quotes about Arabic Poetry.

Arabic Poetry Quotes

“كان ينبغي لي أن أمتنع. كان ينبغي لي أن أصمت. كان ينبغي لي أن لا أكتفي. أن أقول نعم على مضض. أن أردّد شكراً. وأتمتمها مطولاً. أن لا أحدّق في وجهك طويلاً. أن أدير وجهي بسرعة. أن أرتشف قهوتي ببطأ. أن أنظر داخل الفنجان. وأن أنده "ولكن". كان ينبغي لي كل هذا كي أحبك. وكي أذهب الى ليلك بقلبٍ صاخب وجسدٍ يرقص، كان ينبغي لي أيضاً أن أعيد ترتيب الوقت على طريقتي.”

LovePoetryTimePatienceArabic Poetry
Author:Malak El Halabi
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“(Donor Countries) When are we going to understand that donor countries never give anything for free? When are we going to realize that only those with the largest role in destruction offer themselves as benefactors? They donate merely to reshape societies and ravaged lands according to their whims and desires… Their sole aim is to keep the defeated, the marginalized, the disempowered, and the impoverished in that state for as long as possible… When are we going to see that the quickest way to name the world’s greatest criminals is simply to scan the list of donor countries? November 12, 2022”

WarDevelopmentExploitationImperialismThird WorldRefugeesReconstructionDecolonizationArabic PoetryPlundering
Book:سرطان في كل مكان [Cancer Everywhere]
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“A Sweet Woman from a War-Torn Country” In her exile, they often describe her as that ‘sweet woman from a war-torn country.’ They don’t know she loved smelling roses, picking spring wildflowers, and bringing them home after long walks. They don’t know about the first kiss her lover stole during a church power outage on that Easter evening— before the generators came on. They don’t know the long hours she spent under the ancient walnut tree in her village, waiting for her grandfather’s call to share freshly baked pita with ghee and honey. They don’t know about her grandmother’s mixed grains, prepared each year before Easter fasting began. In exile, they try to be kind, telling her she now lives in a ‘safe haven.’ They assume her silence comes from poor language skills or simple agreement with them. They don’t know life’s shocks have silenced her forever. Now she presses her ear against the cold window glass of her apartment, listening to the wind’s mournful cry outside. They remind her she’s among people who honor all values, beliefs, religions, and ethnicities— but she has learned it’s all too late. She no longer needs assurances. Occasionally, all she asks for is a sincere hand on her shoulder or around her neck, to remind her that nothing lasts, that this too shall pass. [Published on April 7, 2023 on CounterPunch.org]”

WarLossSorrowLongingExileAlienationRefugeesArabic PoetryArabic Literature
Author:Louis Yako
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“A Mall and Bullet Holes" While walking in the city of Mostar in Bosnia and Herzegovina, a country devastated and drained by the wars of the global elite, exactly like mine, I arrived at an intersection and noticed a huge mall on the right side… On the left side, there was an old residential building filled with bullet holes that looked like eyewitnesses to all the free death that took place here in a war that has since ended, yet its real causes and the criminals behind it are still lurking in every corner, like infected pus ready to burst at any moment of awareness… I wondered bitterly: When will the world understand that violence never erupts inadvertently, that all violence in our times is premeditated and agreed upon by a small elite that decides in advance that any nation that rejects malls, consumption, and superficiality, must be disciplined with free death for those who resist! It is also agreed upon – and it all costs – that the minds and souls of all survivors must permanently be pierced with bullet holes! In the same intersection, I observed a redhaired elderly woman with sorrowful eyes deep as bullet holes… I then saw a group of youth wearing modern clothes, like those we see in malls… The elderly woman looked at them as if wishing to tell them about all that happened here, but they didn’t notice her existence for their eyes were fixated on their phones… I painfully wondered then: Has anyone told them about what happened here? Can they distinguish the sounds of bombs from those of fireworks? Has this elderly woman, who looked broken and brokenhearted, told them about the real price she’d paid with all the holes left in her heart and her history for the sake of these malls and cheap consumer goods? [Original poem published in Arabic on July 4, 2024 at ahewar.org]”

WarDeathViolenceCapitalismArabic PoetryBalkansDivide And ConquerBosnian WarRuling ClassBalkanization
Author:Louis Yako
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“When will the world understand that violence never erupts inadvertently, that all violence in our times is premeditated and agreed upon by a small elite that decides in advance that any nation that rejects malls, consumption, and superficiality, must be disciplined with free death for those who resist! It is also agreed upon – and it all costs – that the minds and souls of all survivors must permanently be pierced with bullet holes! [From a poem titled "A Mall and Bullets Holes". Original poem published in Arabic on July 4, 2024 at ahewar.org]”

WarViolenceCapitalismArabic PoetryDivide And ConquerRuling ClassBalkanization
Author:Louis Yako
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“A Flock of Geese" She often wondered about the inexplicable deep sorrow that she feels every time she sees a flock of geese flying in the sky … Do the flying geese remind her that she has wasted her life stuck in the trivialities of daily life? Or perhaps the flying birds remind her that she’s lost her ability to fly? She thinks at times in sadness how she wasted the years of her life like a naïve bride dreaming about the ideal groom... A bride planning the minutest details of her wedding, not realizing, until her wings were clipped, that the wedding, the groom, and the bride are roles and illusions created by society to counter the dangers of all those who wish to fly; those who dream about creating new worlds instead of getting hanged or strangulated in a world created on their behalf by others … As she hears the honking of another passing flock of geese flying over her head as did the most beautiful years of her life the birds awaken in her that uncontrollable itch to depart to refuse the illusion of settling and stability The illusion of the wedding and the groom The illusion of all the wedding invitees Who spend an entire night dancing, cheering, and celebrating the clipping of her wings… [Original poem published in Arabic on December 14, 2023 at ahewar.org]” ― Louis Yako”

FreedomSocietySocial JusticePrisonWomen EmpowermentGender EqualityGender RolesTraditionsArabic PoetryGender Studies
Author:Louis Yako
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“Lights" Lights of churches, monasteries, Christmas trees, and magnificent mosques The dim lights inside warm houses in all the foreign cities where I wandered alone The far away lights of cars driving over bridges I watched from the windows of boring hotels on clear moonlit nights Candle lights and lanterns Lights of little shops in ancient and forgotten alleys Lights of ships sailing to places I will never get to see The lamp post lights on dark rainy winter nights The remote lighthouses and lights of unknown fishermen The glittering lights I have seen in the eyes of kind strangers in cities tourists never go to All these lights I once loved that break me now as they remind me of the magical light that was extinguished in your eyes … [Original poem published in Arabic on November 13, 2024 at ahewar.org]”

LoveLife LessonsLossSorrowBelovedBroken HeartCompanionshipArabic PoetryLightsArabic Literature
Author:Louis Yako
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“Spices" The scents of spices are sad whether at home or in foreign lands ... At home, they passes through the nose to give a ray of hope, a breathing space that make us forget – albeit for a short while – all about the chains of religions, gossip, the absurdity of politics, and the cruelty of the ruling classes … At home, spices help us cope with the heavy weight of the backbreaking customs and traditions … You see everyone excited to have a meal that help them forget about the hardships, the crises, and the unsuitability of life at home … In alienating foreign lands, The scent of spices awakens everything that was lost, including the lost lands and homes… There is something unbearably sad about the image of a woman Standing in a kitchen filled with scents of spices reminding her of all that happened, all that was possible, all that should never have happened, and of all the irreplaceable losses … So many are the societies that have been completely destroyed, and of which nothing remains but scents of spices that add flavor to foods and marinate the wounds … Could spices be like old songs? We love them at home because they touch wounds we wish we could heal from, the same old songs break our hearts in foreign lands, because by then we have finally learned that exile doesn’t heal wounds, but rather pushes the knife deeper into them … And like the alienating foreign lands, the scents of spices declare that there is much more to the story of the wound; a story that kills if untold, and doesn’t heal when narrated … [Original poem published in Arabic on December 11, 2023 at ahewar.org]”

CultureLossDestructionExileAlienationSpicesScentsArabic PoetryDisplacementForeign Lands
Author:Louis Yako
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“They Say the World Will End Soon" They say the nuclear weapons—born of fear of the other— have become a curse, a plague, a scourge upon those who built them, even more than those they were meant to threaten… And I wonder: Will nuclear weapons bring about the end of the world? Or will it be humanity’s fear, complicity, and quiet submission? If what they say is true, before the world ends—and before I die— I wish to drink one last cup of cardamom-flavored tea, to taste one final fig, peach, or apricot, to inhale the scent of a quince, to dip one last piece of bread into Palestinian thyme and olive oil… Before the world ends, I want to smell pine needles, and breathe the scent of the season’s first rain after a long, dry summer. Before the world ends—and before I die— I long to read one more book from the thousands still waiting for me. I ask for one more spring to inhale bunches of Iraqi narcissus. And one more autumn to marvel at the dying leaves— defying death with beauty just before falling upon the indifferent ground. But most of all, my final wish before I die is that my death not be the end of the world…”

Life LessonsHumanityHopeFearCourageRebellionComplicityArabic PoetryArabic LiteratureThe End Of The World
Book:سرطان في كل مكان [Cancer Everywhere]
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“Sorrow in the Heart of an Apple” I tidied my old sorrow, wrapped it gently in scented cloth, and buried it beneath the apple tree in our village orchard. Seasons rolled by... And I believed it was finished, forgotten, even the burial site lost to memory. Then came harvest. I plucked a red apple— shiny, luscious, radiant with promise. But with the first bite, I tasted it. That same sorrow, aged but unmistakable. It had not only survived— it had multiplied. Now here I am, face to face again, finding it in the heart of every apple.”

LifeLife LessonsLossGriefMemoryTraumaForgettingArabic PoetryArabic LiteratureThe Human Condition
Book:سرطان في كل مكان [Cancer Everywhere]
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“أخشى سأذهب للتسبح قليلاً. أخشى أن لا أعود.. الأمواج تغازلني وتدعوني للعشاء دوماً. أخشى أن أوافق على ملاقتهن.. أخشى أن أذهب.. أخشى أن لا اعود.. سأذهب للركض قليلاً . أخشى أن لا اعود.. الغيوم تنده اسمي باستمرار. أخشى ان ألبّي نداءاتهن.. اخشى ان أذهب يا أمي.. أخشى أن لا اعود..”

Letting GoWingsTemptationArabic PoetryArabicBreaking Free
Book:سمير
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“الحسرة عجينة الندم لغة الفاجعة الأولى تنز كزيت فاض عن الحكاية تبلل الدرب بوجع اللاشيء الحسرة إنسان يحب طعم الروح العالقة بين الأرض والسماء الحسرة أم وأب يبكيان أولادا طمروا النبع وضاعوا في الأيام”

PoetryPoemArabic Poetryشعركامل_صالحBrief Literatureومضةأدب وجيزKamel_farhan_salehكامل_فرحان_صالح
Book:أبجدية التجاعيد
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“Departure" Everyone wants to leave Those here want to go there, and many there are eager to return here… There are those who understood that living is not possible neither here nor there, so, you see them, in vain, searching for alternatives… Few have understood that the impossibility of living is a result of complicity not geography, that most of those who stay or depart never part ways with their complicity and tendency to surrender, thus, they recreate the circumstances and the causes of departure everywhere they go… Few have understood that all places will remain unlivable so long as the causes to depart are a result of a complicit and defeated Self… [Original poem published in Arabic on June 20, 2024 at ahewar.org]”

LeavingSeparationSurrenderDenialEscapeDepartureComplicityArabic PoetryArabic LiteratureThe Art Of Life
Author:Louis Yako
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“صمت الروح صمت يصقل الحرف قبل ان اتفوه به. صمت فنجان القهوة قبل ان ارتشفه. صمت الفاجعة. هذا الصمت عندما رنّ الهاتف، ما بعد منتصف الليل وقال لي مواسياً: "لقد حاولنا وخسرناه..." صمت الهاتف عندما اغلقته وتوجهت نحو المطبخ كي اشرب كأس ماء. كأس ماء كي لا اذرف دمعة. على الشرفة يردد المذياع النعوة: "انتقل الى رحمته تعالى المأسوف على شبابه...." هذا الغريب الذي لم انس حتى الآن صوته قال بجمود: "انتقل" ولم يذكر الى اين.. قال: "المأسوف على شبابه" ونسي طفولتي.. ينعون الميت وينسون من يخلف وراءه.. كان أبي يردد: "الحياة زهرية حتّى في حزنها" فارتديت الزهر. تأتي امي ترتدي الاسود وترحل. ترتدي الاسود وتنسى الوصية.”

PainDeathFatherGriefMourningArabic PoetryArabic
Book:سمير
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“آه يا طائر الطفولة النائح قل لي لِمَّ كل هذا النواح؟ قل لي لِمَ كل هذا العويل؟ آه يا طائري الذي صاحبني منذ الطفولة لِمَ طبعت نواحك وألصقت عويلك وآهاتك في كل ضحكاتي في كل ابتساماتي في ملامحي في نبراتي؟ آه يا رفيق الطفولة لقد بات الجميع يتجنبني بسببك لئلا أذكرهم بعويلهم الذي دفنوه وصرخاتهم التي أخرسوها ليتمكنوا من مواصلة العيش ...”

LifePoetryCreativityChildhoodMeaning Of LifeSymbolismArabic PoetryArabic Literature
Author:Louis Yako
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“[Silent Messages 2] She sat to rearrange the contents of her disorganized handbag At the crowded bus terminal When she lifted her head for a short interval, Her eyes caught a young couple kissing, touching, and hugging In a performative and exaggerated manner... When the couple noticed her, The young woman gave her a mean and malicious look as if asking: Are you jealous of all the love I am surrounded by? She returned the look with a sly one as if responding: The love that exaggerates in displaying itself in public Is either immature, dead, or dying… [Original poem published in Arabic on December 5, 2022 at ahewar.org]”

LoveImmaturityArabic PoetryArabic LiteraturePerformativityLack Of WisdomPublic Display Of Affection
Author:Louis Yako
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“[Silent Messages 2] She was rearranging her messy handbag at the crowded bus station When she lifted her head for a short interval, Her eyes caught a young couple kissing, touching, and hugging In an exaggerated and performative manner When the couple noticed her, The young woman gave her a mean and malicious look as if asking: Are you jealous of all the love I am surrounded by? She returned the look with a sly one as if responding: The love that exaggerates in displaying itself in public Is either new and inexperienced, dead, or dying… [[Original poem published in Arabic on December 5, 2022 at ahewar.org]”

LoveExperienceJealousyMaliceArabic PoetryArabic LiteraturePerformativityPublic Display Of AffectionThe Art Of Loving
Author:Louis Yako
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“Barbie” Through my many long travels I’ve seen women reading books on planes, buses, and trains… Over the years, three titles caught my eye, each in the hands of women who looked—or tried to look—like the Barbie doll. I don’t recall the exact names, but one was along the lines of ‘How to Keep Your Husband’ or ‘How to Preserve Your Marriage.’ The second warned of ‘Signs He’s Cheating on You,’ and the third promised how to get rid of him—and move on. It felt as if these three titles mapped out the lifecycle of every woman who lets herself play Barbie. And I often wonder: wouldn’t reading ‘How to Stop Playing the Barbie Role in Love and Life’ be enough to solve all the problems those books claim to fix? [Original poem published”

LoveRelationshipsMarriageFeminismGenderWomen EmpowermentSuperficialityArabic PoetryArabic Literature
Author:Louis Yako
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“Silent Messages – 2” She sat at the crowded bus terminal, rearranging the contents of her disorganized handbag. When she lifted her head for a moment, her eyes fell on a young couple kissing, touching, and hugging in a performative, exaggerated manner. As they noticed her, the young woman cast a mean, malicious look— as if to ask, ‘Are you jealous of all the love that surrounds me?’ She returned the glance with a sly one, as if replying, ‘Love that must parade itself in public is either immature, dead, or dying…”

LoveWisdomRomanceRelationshipsMarriageFeminismTrue LoveGenderArabic PoetryArabic Literature
Book:سرطان في كل مكان [Cancer Everywhere]
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“POEM FOR SOUKAÏNA” **** To tell of my new Moroccan Love, Ô, I court her everyday. But just as a pearl in the mud is a pearl, So is my Love just an Arab girl… in that I offer her constant, loving woos, but she’ll ask me in return that I give her flooze*. That’s when I kiss her and shrug, and I say, “Someday.” And she gives me her love free anyway. * * * Ô, my Love is a child of the souks. In Casablanca born. A gypsy thief, “Soukaïna” named. We met in the souks of Marrakech, It was here my heart she tamed. Ô, she came at nineteen to Marrakech, In search of wild fun. And she lived in Marrakech seven years, Before my heart she won.”

Love StoryArabic PoetryMoroccoArabicSaharaMoroccanMarrakechMarrakeshNorth African PoetrySaharan
Author:Roman Payne
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“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”

InspirationalPoetryCreativityExileAlienationArabic PoetryWorld Literature
Book:أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]
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“(Sorrow in the Heart of an Apple) I clean up my old sorrow Wrapped it in a clean and scented piece of cloth Buried it under an apple tree in our apple orchard in the village. Seasons passed… It seemed to me that everything was over When the harvest season came again. I forgot that I had wanted to forget about my sorrow I forgot where I had buried it, too. I picked an attractive red apple That looked glorious and delicious. From the first bite, I immediately recognized The taste of that same age-old sorrow. I realized then that my buried sorrow Had multiplied. And here I am Face to face with it again: Here I am finding it In the heart of every single apple!”

InspirationalWisdomPoetryLiteratureArabic PoetryArabic LiteratureWorld Literature
Author:Louis Yako
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“The Democracy of the Naïve” There are still those naïve souls who talk of democracy— they even claim the future of democracy in this country or that is in danger… As if democracy ever had a past or a present, and could therefore threaten its own future… There was never democracy or justice, my friends; this world has always been—and will remain— ruled by the whims of elites and invisible hands that guide naïve publics to see the problems, desires, and agendas of the chosen few as noble causes worth struggle and revolution… There is no democracy nor true revolution, my friends, except the silent ones that must unseat the elites who secretly push naïve publics to install or remove this government or that for their hidden interests… What do you think, my friends? Do you still believe the future of democracy is in danger?”

DemocracyIllusionPropagandaElitesGovernanceWorld OrderArabic PoetrySocial EngineeringMass Control
Book:سرطان في كل مكان [Cancer Everywhere]
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“Like a scared child singing to himself in the dark, most people sooth themselves With the worn-out phrase: 'Life goes on…' without being able to remember anymore Why should it go on? Few are those who dare to ask: How could life go on under such lifeless conditions?”

InspirationalLife LessonsPoetryMeaning Of LifeStatus QuoCritical ThinkingArabic PoetryArabic LiteratureWisodm
Book:أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]
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“Arabs & Garbage" Strange is the Arab story with garbage— who told them, who taught them to toss waste carelessly, wherever and however they please? When will Arabs understand that putting garbage in its proper place could solve half of their environmental and societal woes? And the other half? That too would vanish if they stopped casting away their human gems— their brightest minds, forced to serve others abroad. When will they stop discarding their best in favor of foreign refuse they glorify simply because it comes draped in white skin and blue eyes, boasting skills they claim Arabs can’t survive without? When will they grasp that real change lies in placing all garbage— be it those who govern them or those they import— exactly where it belongs?”

EnvironmentAwarenessPollutionColonialismImperialismArabic PoetryInferiority ComplexArabic LiteratureBrain Drain
Book:سرطان في كل مكان [Cancer Everywhere]
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“Hand Watches” I opened the drawer where I store old keepsakes and tokens. My eyes paused on hand watches with dead batteries, frozen in time… Gifts from teachers and friends— offered to honor my accomplishments, to praise my respect for time. It never occurred to them, or to me, that Time could die of a heart attack— that it would cease to matter the day my homeland was occupied and destroyed. The day the plunderers —both foreign and within— colluded to burn and erase all that was beautiful. Since then, I’ve refused to wear hand watches, and I never will until my people reclaim their Time and dignity. And when that day comes, Time will no longer matter. For then, I will become— a butterfly, a sparrow, a daffodil or an orange blossom, perhaps an apricot blossom on a branch, an unstoppable stream of water flowing beyond time and timing. In that same drawer, I found pens that had run dry, like mummified corpses. In a moment of despair, a lightning bolt of realization struck me— leaving behind a terrifying question: What if this is a wound that no amount of time can heal— a cause so vast that all the world’s ink cannot write its cure?”

WarTimeLossExileInvasionRefugeesColonizationArabic PoetryDisplacementArabic Literature
Book:سرطان في كل مكان [Cancer Everywhere]
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“[Hand Watches] I opened the drawer Where I keep old things and tokens I glanced over some hand watches With dead batteries and frozen times… Watches that were gifted to me over time By teachers or friends To commend my accomplishments and respect for time… It never occurred to them or to me then That Time would die in a heart attack And will cease to be important The day my homeland was occupied and destroyed… The day the occupying thieves In collaboration with the thieves within Would burn and destroy everything beautiful in it… And since then, I refuse to wear hand watches And will never wear one Until my people get back their Time and dignity… And when that happens, Time will remain unimportant For then, I will turn into a butterfly A sparrow A daffodil or an orange blossom, Or perhaps an apricot blossom on a branch An unstoppable sprig of water That flows beyond time and timing … In that same drawer I found Pens that have run out of ink Looking like mummified corpses.. At a moment of despair, A strong feeling struck me like a lightning Leaving me with a frightening question: What if this is a wound that all time can’t cure A cause that all the ink of the world can’t solve? [Original poem published in Arabic on February 5, 2023 at ahewar.org]”

WarTimeLossWoundsInvasionIraq WarHealing The PastArabic PoetryArabic LiteratureThe Middle East
Author:Louis Yako
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“طريق الجًلجًلة لم أكن يوماً راعياً ينزل من هضبة. أنا كالمسيح، مشيت طريق الجلجلة. أنا كالمسيح، ذهبت الى الصحراء للصوم أربعين يوماً. وأربعين ليلة. ونسيت من بعدها كيفية الأكل. ونسيت من بعدها تناول البلح. عندما التقيتك تراءى لي أنك تقود مواكب الملائكة. تراءى لي ان وجه الله سيبان وأن رضوان يفتح لي باب الجنة. وها بوجه القمر يسود أمامي وها بيهوذا يضحك لي مبتعداً. أنا ما طلبت منك يوماً أن تنزلني من صليبي. أنا ككل مسيح أعشق وأصون صليبي. أنا ككل مسيح وجعي علة وجودي. ما ام أطلبه ولم تبخل عنه هو غرز أشواك ورودك في عنقي. كي أتذكر وجودك كلما رفعت برأسي نحو السماء. كي أستشعر بالشمس تحرق خدودي امتداد الشاطئ. كي اغرق بعرقي المالح كلما هززت برأسي نحو الأسفل.”

PainHurtLossSadnessBreak UpArabic PoetryArabic
Book:سمير
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“صخبُ الصمت الصمت لغة الحاضر. صوت الأنين يمزّق الجرح .. صوت الانين يوقظ باقي الأنداب.. في الجمود عزاؤنا. الضحكة الكاذبة تحرق بضوضائها بقايا قلب أكلته النار.. الدمعة التي تنام في الأحداق وتتدحرج لا تنقذنا من الدمار.. الصمت لغة من بات ألمه من دون ذكرى.. الجمود قناع من فقد عينه وفمه.. في آخر الليلة الماطرة، مركب يغرق.. في آخر السالسا، رمح في الخاصرة.. في بداية العشق، اظافرحمراء في العنق.. بعد آخر نقطة حمراء، تنتبه أنك خسرت اصابعك العشرة.. ناسك يمشي طريق العودة الى ذاته.. ناسك مقتول ويرفض ان يلجأ الى الثأر.. ناسك يردد لنفسه: " الصمت مقبرة الضعف " " الجمود مقبرة الخذلان " أنا الناسك الذي فقد أصابعه العشرة.. أنا المتصوف في حبك أعتنق الصمت.. الصمت مقبرة آلام الحاضر.. الصمت مقبرة ذكريات الماضي.. الصمت ديانتي. ويا ليتني أصمت وتكف شفاهي عن قول " بلى "..”

PainHurtSilenceRelationshipSeparationSurrenderBreak UpArabic PoetryArabic
Book:سمير
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