I found this today on the train, in a notebook I kept 10 years ago:

Turn a page
Just one more
Then no more
A few more days and you’ll get to the shore

Turn a page
Put on a smile
Just for a while
Before you know it you’ll have covered a mile

One more page
Of a lifelong book
Now take a look
It’s another chapter and you’re on the hook


You and I
How much time we spend
Standing on the edge of a spring
Somewhere in spring
Looking at the horizon
Following the bees
Listening to the breeze

Today
Early morning
Leaning on my window
I saw one pass by
Treasuring a flower nearby
Then going on its way
Kissing it goodbye

That buzzing sound
Not that sad
Rather melancholic
Somehow monotonic
At noon
It breaks
Just like this rhythm
Verse schism

If you ever abandon me my love
And I know you would not
Remember the bees
And forget me not


I miss you. Three very simple words, with a very unsure verb in the middle. It’s like saying a sentence and not quite getting it right. Like taking the first turn right, only to figure out you did it too soon… or too late. Like remembering just a couple of days too late that it was some dear person’s birthday. Like not a girl, not a woman, but somewhere in between. Like not a hit, totally off the mark. Like by a mile, or by the circumference of the earth, irrelevant.

Here feels like home; yet, home is where you…


Image for post
Image for post

Willebroek, une petite ville où je t’ai fait une grande promesse. Une ville sans raison, sinon celles que l’on lui a créées. Une ville qui assurera à jamais la résolution de tous nos problèmes. Une ville où je t’ai embrassé cent fois sur la bouche et infiniment avec les yeux.

Les jours passeront et les nuits cesseront. Parfois vite et d’autres fois lentement. Mais le temps, quand bien même têtu, finira par céder à trois mots qui résonnent en toute douceur, et à tous moments.


Aux tons de tes yeux
Qui étincellent plus fort
Que le soleil encore
Sur Londres à son zénith

Aux tons de ces yeux
Profonds
Véhéments
Bleus comme une mer
Je t’écris ces vers
Fabuleux comme un mythe

Au-delà des cieux
Émus
Suspendus
Au-delà du sol
Notre premier vol
Comme tu m’as dit
Comme je t’écris

Au tons de ces cieux
Au-delà des mots
De l’encre du stylo
Bleu comme les eaux
Des océans infinis
Si je suis poète
Tu es la poésie


When we’re stuck on a plane for hours, we end up writing silly songs, then smiling, making fun of ourselves, and still post them!

Pourquoi maintenant
Dans un avion
Dans les nuages
Sur les nuages
Tu viens me voir
Sur un petit
Un tout petit
Tout p’tit nuage

Mais comment je peux
Je peux te dire
Comment tu peux
Venir ici
S’il en est ainsi
Comment je peux
J’peux m’en dormir
Comment je peux
J’peux m’en sortir
Le voyage est long
Il se fait tard
Allez maintenant
Allez
Tu pars

Mais tu veux pas Tu veux pas partir Sortir de…


Every time E’s on a plane, E contemplates. Sometimes E also writes. E is quite stable, and predictable. Ironically, as much as E is exponentially increasing in knowledge, culture, experience, and even positive feelings, E hates infinity and unlimited territories.

E likes waking up every morning quite early, say 6 o’clock. E looks at Pi lying in bed. Pi has a beautiful face, a baby face, even though Pi is not so young. E knows Pi by heart. They have been together for many years now, gone through many ups and downs, and lived in many places. They haven’t really…

Osama Sayed

Exploring the world, one word at a time.

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