h.harouche

Enter la réalité et les rêves. All rights reserved ©.

[unmondefou]

I won't let myself fall apart just because you reopen an old wound.

--- h.harouche

[unmondefou]

The city lights sparkle on the horizon like stars, and as I step into its streets, only one thought occupies my mind: if I were to walk through his neighborhood and stand beneath his home, would I find him looking out from his window—just as the moon gazes down upon the earth?

--- h.harouche

[unmondefou]

Your sun played it well

I'm the painting that you have

hung on a wall, and in front

of a window without any curtains

where all that is left from me

are fading shadows of

used to be colored colors

--- h.harouche

[unmondefou]

The Threshold of the Barzakh

​Even if I were to wait an eternity,

she would not return;

for she has gone where souls meet—

to the realm of Barzakh,

from which I was cast away.

​And though I have shed all my sins

and erased their traces

with the breaths of faith,

their remnants still track me

like a demonic jinn.

​Yet, salvation comes only

in the stillness of the night,

when the Lesser Death

—out of pity for me—

bears me to where my closed eyes

find solace in her shimmering Manes.

--- h.harouche

[unmondefou]

...I would like to be a cloud, floating in the blue sky.

--- h.harouche

[unmondefou]

Kiko, Whenever I draw near, you turn your gaze away; and that majestic shyness fragments the letters of my heart, yet, by God, I shall never forsake the ocean of your love. Kiko, Turn toward me and place your hands upon my chest; for my breath holds the truest proof of longing in my ribs. Kiko, Say something even if the ink of words fails your lips; for I am well-versed in the whirlpool of colors you stammer around you, and pen to the path your words carve as they swirl. Kiko, If love itself is something hard to attain, then painting upon your red gown is within reach so embroider me there.

--- h.harouche

Painting Credit : @stoxxgaleriaderte

Poem inspired by kevin’s painting ‘Kiko’.

Thank you for letting your colors become words.

[unmondefou]

I thought that the more love I poured into the bucket of passion, the more feelings of affection would overflow — yet, too late, I realized the bucket had a hole; still, like a naive blind man, I kept believing that the leakage from its bottom was a torrent that might one day quench the thirst of some heart.

And so, I live in illusions.

--- h.harouche

[unmondefou]

Kiko, Whenever I draw near, you turn your gaze away; and that majestic shyness fragments the letters of my heart, yet, by God, I shall never forsake the ocean of your love. Kiko, Turn toward me and place your hands upon my chest; for my breath holds the truest proof of longing in my ribs. Kiko, Say something even if the ink of words fails your lips; for I am well-versed in the whirlpool of colors you stammer around you, and pen to the path your words carve as they swirl. Kiko, If love itself is something hard to attain, then painting upon your red gown is within reach so embroider me there.

--- h.harouche

Painting Credit : @stoxxgaleriaderte

Poem inspired by kevin’s painting ‘Kiko’.

Thank you for letting your colors become words.

[unmondefou]

The Threshold of the Barzakh

​Even if I were to wait an eternity,

she would not return;

for she has gone where souls meet—

to the realm of Barzakh,

from which I was cast away.

​And though I have shed all my sins

and erased their traces

with the breaths of faith,

their remnants still track me

like a demonic jinn.

​Yet, salvation comes only

in the stillness of the night,

when the Lesser Death

—out of pity for me—

bears me to where my closed eyes

find solace in her shimmering Manes.

--- h.harouche

[unmondefou]

the more intense

the pain became,

the more I hammered

the nail of salvation

into my bones

until they were

riddled with holes,

leaving no room

for another hole.

I’ve reached the end,

and that's for sure,

where my body

has become

an instrument only

for a mournful tune.

--- h.harouche

[unmondefou]

Swing marionette

​I became a grave,

without a headstone to bear a name,

without a body to mourn.

​A swing suspended in your hands,

caught between the sky of your love

and the earth of your hatred.

An in and out, of inhaling hopes and

unleashing cries.

​But who cares about a marionette?

They see only the innocence

that the show conveys.

​But the truth is revealed

only to those like me,

who believed the promise:

In my hands, you are the soul.

--- h.harouche

[unmondefou]

I lit a cigarette to release the pent-up emotions. But alas, if only I hadn’t — because with every inhale, exhale, the nicotine hit its flashes, and what played was mon court-métrage de vie.

--- h.harouche

[unmondefou]

He cries out in pain,

for her absence still rains down meteors

upon his heart,

​while she lives in heavy silence,

concealing the agony of her parting

within a black hole.

​And between two parallel cosmos,

their once-unified nebula soul

split into an eclipse of cause and effect,

creating a celestial Syzygy

reuniting only when anger and regret

ignite into a resounding kiss.

Their explosion.

--- h.harouche

[unmondefou]

And my journey continues through inspiring creative milestones, thank you all so much for 25,000 likes.

🤍 h.harouche

[unmondefou]

He cries out in pain,

for her absence still rains down meteors

upon his heart,

​while she lives in heavy silence,

concealing the agony of her parting

within a black hole.

​And between two parallel cosmos,

their once-unified nebula soul

split into an eclipse of cause and effect,

creating a celestial Syzygy

reuniting only when anger and regret

ignite into a resounding kiss.

Their explosion.

--- h.harouche

[unmondefou]

I lit a cigarette to release the pent-up emotions. But alas, if only I hadn’t — because with every inhale, exhale, the nicotine hit its flashes, and what played was mon court-métrage de vie.

--- h.harouche

[unmondefou]

Your sun played it well

I'm the painting that you have

hung on a wall, and in front

of a window without any curtains

where all that is left from me

are fading shadows of

used to be colored colors

--- h.harouche