The music is shaped by the void… The void is shaped by time… Time is shaped by devastation…
[author title=”Ahmed Ramadan” image=”https://sindhcourier.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/06/Ahmed-Ramadan-Poet-Iraq-Sindh-Courier.jpeg”]Ahmed Ramadan, born on January 15, 1992, is poet and writer from Nineveh/Mosul, Iraq. He graduated in pathological analysis from University of Mosul. His three collections of poetry have been published – the first entitled ‘The Winter’s Song’ and the second entitled ‘The Eternal Clay’ and the third one is the ‘Thawna Bu-Nassah’. He published some of his texts in magazines, electronic newspapers and paperbacks inside and outside his country, and got many academic studies. His works have been translated into English, French, Italian and Spanish.[/author]
A fixed hour in time… An hour unlike time…
The music is shaped by the void… The void is shaped by time… Time is shaped by devastation…
Man, bearer of eternity on his back… loser of the stars… the night the truth descends on the liver…
Absent at the moment of meaning… and he is reiterated in the Tafsir… The collector of animals… in the Book of the Flesh…
The effect of absence on spirit… The night’s bed in the only eye…
Diamonds shimmering afar as heavens… With clear features as a wound by a stormy wind
The music is shaped by the void… The void is shaped by time… The time is shaped by the memory
Man, the creator of light on the board… who speaks to God in the shadows… and brings out silence…
The dawn of the birth of the place… the mover of nothingness with vision… and the destroyer of annihilation with devotion
The essence after the desire… the adorner of the earth with the evidence of the eyes… and the music of the trees in the space… and the shining moon at the grave…
The imminent bloomer as two lands… The remover of features as the wine of paradise… and a drop in a jar…
The music is shaped by the void… The void is shaped by time… Time is shaped by devastation…
The verse attached to the mouth of the unknown … The killer of the last morals … The day of the height of illusion…
The fire of the sacred arborizing around the flattery of time… Fire that sleeps in darkness…
Fire that waves with a branch of life like a burning thirst… that crossed the wrinkles of the face, lying on the sunset as if it were its home…
The music is shaped by the void… The void is shaped by time… The time is shaped by memory…
Freedom brought along by madness… and the prayers of the sole seed of the soul…
The color that overlooks the word… and the explosion accompanying their death..
The soil of forenoon that was strewn in tears … and the salvation that sprang up on its shores…
Music for the blurred green hand… and the eternal recurrence of love…
The prophecy of a drowsy flower bent on the right shoulder and laughing
To the stones from the blood that dripping from the sword…
An existence that bids farewell to the air…
A nothingness that effaces desires in sacred sheets.
As the winter curtain is pulled away … from the scorching day … as a last virtue…
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