في الصورة من اليمين الباحث محمد عثمان دريج، القاص المسرحي يحيى فضل الله، شخصي السمين مصطفى مدثر و الناقد الفاتح مبارك تصادفنا في بيت يحيى بهاملتون
Text by: Mohamed HamadTranslated by: Mustafa Mudathir
There is a tiny mystery;
an entity unknown that hymenates our souls for reasons undisclosed with a plasticine of thinness a sleazy film of boredom to blunt our insistence in dealing with existence. And verily those same songs, enchanted as they are that ornament affect, the deepest and inmost, are turned to mere phonations that tend to bore at most.
The things you sought with passion are now dispelled around you devoid of early value, or heavily under-rationed. You like it, oh! no more, the stretching on your bed Nor do you like rising and nothing is surprising.
Your cup of tea, whose edges
There is a tiny mystery;
an entity unknown that hymenates our souls for reasons undisclosed with a plasticine of thinness a sleazy film of boredom to blunt our insistence in dealing with existence. And verily those same songs, enchanted as they are that ornament affect, the deepest and inmost, are turned to mere phonations that tend to bore at most.
The things you sought with passion are now dispelled around you devoid of early value, or heavily under-rationed. You like it, oh! no more, the stretching on your bed Nor do you like rising and nothing is surprising.
Your cup of tea, whose edges
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