"He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good."

-W.H Auden, Funeral Blues

There is another sky,
Ever serene and fair,
And there is another sunshine,
Though it be darkness there;
Never mind faded forests, Austin,
Never mind silent fields—
Here is a little forest,
Whose leaf is ever green;
Here is a brighter garden,
Where not a frost has been;
In its unfading flowers
I hear the bright bee hum:
Prithee, my brother,
Into my garden come!

-Emily Dickinson,There Is Another Sky

can you guess what I'm planning?

Turns out it's the favourite poem of one of my professors 🩷

And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to blossom.

-Anais Nin, Risk

أطرقُ بابًا
أفتحهُ
لا أبصر إلا نفسي بابًا
أفتحهُ
أدخلُ
لا شيء سوى بابٍ آخر
يا ربي
كمْ بابًا يفصلني عني؟

― عدنان الصائغ

-سوزان عليوان

في تلك الخنادقِ التي عشتها ، وجدتني أكتُبُ، وأقرا وأقرا الكثير من الكتب، كأن "الحياة هي دائماً في مكانٍ آخر" كما ذهبت رواية ميلان كونديرا.

-عدنان الصائغ

"Whatever's burning in me is mine! and I'll split this town in two and everything in it before I'll let you put it out!"

-Toni Morrison, Sula

"It is good to love as much as one can, for therein lies true strength, and he who loves much does much and is capable of much, and that which is done with love is well done."

-Van Gogh

When a storm comes up at night and the wind is crying,
When the trees are moaning like masts on laboring ships,
I wake in fear and put out my hand to find you
With your name on my lips.
No pain that the heart can hold is like to this one—
To call, forgetting, into aching space,
To reach out confident hands and find beside you
Only an empty place.
This should atone for the hours when I forget you.
Take then my offering, clean and sharp and sweet,
An agony brighter than years of dull remembrance.
I lay it at your feet.

-Aline Kilmet, Atonement

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

-Pablo Neruda, If you forgot me