Mariam al-Masri
@mariam_al_masri_author@zirk.us  ·  activity timestamp 2 days ago
عبد الحليم حافظ غني لي يا بلبل / Ghani ya boulboul, Abdelhalim Hafez
Mariam al-Masri
@mariam_al_masri_author@zirk.us  ·  activity timestamp 2 days ago
Joy
@joynewacc@mastodon.social  ·  activity timestamp 3 days ago
Or perhaps because painting is free - forgive me, I forgot- It costs the painter his life, Or it costs that soldier a bullet or two To silence this Palestinian clamor. I imagine him in his uniform, layered in armor- We cannot relinquish or let go of any of our killers- Watching small boys draw with rough hands: Cries, supplications, war, love- A bride and groom beneath a sky of rockets. So we celebrate: dabke, a wedding dress, Palestinian thobes, And rocketworks instead of fireworks. The sight provokes him; he loads his gun:
Or perhaps because painting is free - forgive me, I forgot- It costs the painter his life, Or it costs that soldier a bullet or two To silence this Palestinian clamor. I imagine him in his uniform, layered in armor- We cannot relinquish or let go of any of our killers- Watching small boys draw with rough hands: Cries, supplications, war, love- A bride and groom beneath a sky of rockets. So we celebrate: dabke, a wedding dress, Palestinian thobes, And rocketworks instead of fireworks. The sight provokes him; he loads his gun:
Or perhaps because painting is free - forgive me, I forgot- It costs the painter his life, Or it costs that soldier a bullet or two To silence this Palestinian clamor. I imagine him in his uniform, layered in armor- We cannot relinquish or let go of any of our killers- Watching small boys draw with rough hands: Cries, supplications, war, love- A bride and groom beneath a sky of rockets. So we celebrate: dabke, a wedding dress, Palestinian thobes, And rocketworks instead of fireworks. The sight provokes him; he loads his gun:
Petals and Pale Signatures: Palestinian Voices on the Wall of Expansion. My country famed for Palestinian Thobes and Dabka, For love, for war, for murals in countless hues. I once asked myself after seeing so many drawings, Colors and paintings of unknown makers, Rendered on the separation wall with precision and care, The winding lines that betray the trembling hands, As if each stroke were an unforgivable crime-Those drawings born from the womb of flight and dispossession, From the largest womb of repression. Those paintings, their artists unknown, May be led to justice or to inevitable death If a hand sins by signing the art It carved a moment ago. Strange that one hand can forge glory And at the same time lead its owner to the abyss- Or worse: "Beit Sahour".
Petals and Pale Signatures: Palestinian Voices on the Wall of Expansion. My country famed for Palestinian Thobes and Dabka, For love, for war, for murals in countless hues. I once asked myself after seeing so many drawings, Colors and paintings of unknown makers, Rendered on the separation wall with precision and care, The winding lines that betray the trembling hands, As if each stroke were an unforgivable crime-Those drawings born from the womb of flight and dispossession, From the largest womb of repression. Those paintings, their artists unknown, May be led to justice or to inevitable death If a hand sins by signing the art It carved a moment ago. Strange that one hand can forge glory And at the same time lead its owner to the abyss- Or worse: "Beit Sahour".
Petals and Pale Signatures: Palestinian Voices on the Wall of Expansion. My country famed for Palestinian Thobes and Dabka, For love, for war, for murals in countless hues. I once asked myself after seeing so many drawings, Colors and paintings of unknown makers, Rendered on the separation wall with precision and care, The winding lines that betray the trembling hands, As if each stroke were an unforgivable crime-Those drawings born from the womb of flight and dispossession, From the largest womb of repression. Those paintings, their artists unknown, May be led to justice or to inevitable death If a hand sins by signing the art It carved a moment ago. Strange that one hand can forge glory And at the same time lead its owner to the abyss- Or worse: "Beit Sahour".
Joy
@joynewacc@mastodon.social  ·  activity timestamp 3 days ago
Or perhaps because painting is free - forgive me, I forgot- It costs the painter his life, Or it costs that soldier a bullet or two To silence this Palestinian clamor. I imagine him in his uniform, layered in armor- We cannot relinquish or let go of any of our killers- Watching small boys draw with rough hands: Cries, supplications, war, love- A bride and groom beneath a sky of rockets. So we celebrate: dabke, a wedding dress, Palestinian thobes, And rocketworks instead of fireworks. The sight provokes him; he loads his gun:
Or perhaps because painting is free - forgive me, I forgot- It costs the painter his life, Or it costs that soldier a bullet or two To silence this Palestinian clamor. I imagine him in his uniform, layered in armor- We cannot relinquish or let go of any of our killers- Watching small boys draw with rough hands: Cries, supplications, war, love- A bride and groom beneath a sky of rockets. So we celebrate: dabke, a wedding dress, Palestinian thobes, And rocketworks instead of fireworks. The sight provokes him; he loads his gun:
Or perhaps because painting is free - forgive me, I forgot- It costs the painter his life, Or it costs that soldier a bullet or two To silence this Palestinian clamor. I imagine him in his uniform, layered in armor- We cannot relinquish or let go of any of our killers- Watching small boys draw with rough hands: Cries, supplications, war, love- A bride and groom beneath a sky of rockets. So we celebrate: dabke, a wedding dress, Palestinian thobes, And rocketworks instead of fireworks. The sight provokes him; he loads his gun:
Petals and Pale Signatures: Palestinian Voices on the Wall of Expansion. My country famed for Palestinian Thobes and Dabka, For love, for war, for murals in countless hues. I once asked myself after seeing so many drawings, Colors and paintings of unknown makers, Rendered on the separation wall with precision and care, The winding lines that betray the trembling hands, As if each stroke were an unforgivable crime-Those drawings born from the womb of flight and dispossession, From the largest womb of repression. Those paintings, their artists unknown, May be led to justice or to inevitable death If a hand sins by signing the art It carved a moment ago. Strange that one hand can forge glory And at the same time lead its owner to the abyss- Or worse: "Beit Sahour".
Petals and Pale Signatures: Palestinian Voices on the Wall of Expansion. My country famed for Palestinian Thobes and Dabka, For love, for war, for murals in countless hues. I once asked myself after seeing so many drawings, Colors and paintings of unknown makers, Rendered on the separation wall with precision and care, The winding lines that betray the trembling hands, As if each stroke were an unforgivable crime-Those drawings born from the womb of flight and dispossession, From the largest womb of repression. Those paintings, their artists unknown, May be led to justice or to inevitable death If a hand sins by signing the art It carved a moment ago. Strange that one hand can forge glory And at the same time lead its owner to the abyss- Or worse: "Beit Sahour".
Petals and Pale Signatures: Palestinian Voices on the Wall of Expansion. My country famed for Palestinian Thobes and Dabka, For love, for war, for murals in countless hues. I once asked myself after seeing so many drawings, Colors and paintings of unknown makers, Rendered on the separation wall with precision and care, The winding lines that betray the trembling hands, As if each stroke were an unforgivable crime-Those drawings born from the womb of flight and dispossession, From the largest womb of repression. Those paintings, their artists unknown, May be led to justice or to inevitable death If a hand sins by signing the art It carved a moment ago. Strange that one hand can forge glory And at the same time lead its owner to the abyss- Or worse: "Beit Sahour".
Joy
@joynewacc@mastodon.social  ·  activity timestamp 6 days ago
Again I trace the two heroes: shadow and light. But today I see no light. O Lord, how have they betrayed me now? Is it no longer a masterwork? All that remains is shadow-no light at all... save for the faint glow upon the dead man's face. So who is the traitor? Is it I? You? Or this world that allowed a family to taste its final farewell, a world that stood in silence before all that unfolds? There is no traitor today but the one who funded the massacre, who armed it, who fed it. There is no traitor today but the one who watches. O Lord, how the painting has incarnated in this bitter reality. The colors have faded, some features lost, yet the deepest element still remains: sorrow... grief... betrayal. And silence, that savage silence, which once rose from the traitor of Christ, and now rises from the traitors of the victims of genocide.
Again I trace the two heroes: shadow and light. But today I see no light. O Lord, how have they betrayed me now? Is it no longer a masterwork? All that remains is shadow-no light at all... save for the faint glow upon the dead man's face. So who is the traitor? Is it I? You? Or this world that allowed a family to taste its final farewell, a world that stood in silence before all that unfolds? There is no traitor today but the one who funded the massacre, who armed it, who fed it. There is no traitor today but the one who watches. O Lord, how the painting has incarnated in this bitter reality. The colors have faded, some features lost, yet the deepest element still remains: sorrow... grief... betrayal. And silence, that savage silence, which once rose from the traitor of Christ, and now rises from the traitors of the victims of genocide.
Again I trace the two heroes: shadow and light. But today I see no light. O Lord, how have they betrayed me now? Is it no longer a masterwork? All that remains is shadow-no light at all... save for the faint glow upon the dead man's face. So who is the traitor? Is it I? You? Or this world that allowed a family to taste its final farewell, a world that stood in silence before all that unfolds? There is no traitor today but the one who funded the massacre, who armed it, who fed it. There is no traitor today but the one who watches. O Lord, how the painting has incarnated in this bitter reality. The colors have faded, some features lost, yet the deepest element still remains: sorrow... grief... betrayal. And silence, that savage silence, which once rose from the traitor of Christ, and now rises from the traitors of the victims of genocide.
Christ speaks of betrayal. Perhaps deep within he knows the one. But why this air of tension? Why did the disciples divide, each defending his innocence with all his might-instead of protecting him? John, Peter, Andrew, James the Lesser (son of Alphaeus), Bartholomew, James son of Zebedee, Philip, Thomas, Matthew, Thaddaeus, Simon the Zealot and... Judas. I pause suddenly between the two heroes of the canvas: shadow and light. How the shadow unmasked the traitor, and how the light revealed the faces of the innocent. I woke today, seeking that majestic painting again. But I found no disciples, only a family gathered round a still body. A mother's hand rests on his head, as if begging him to return to life. Sisters read the Gospel, imploring the heavens to grant him one handful more of breath. My eyes cling to every face, sparing no one. Minutes pass, yet I cannot tell: who is the traitor? The Last Supper taught me that no scene is complete without one. Is it the mother who weeps for her son? The sister who pleads with God not to host her brother today, to grant him a few more days in their embrace? Is it the small child, who denied himself sleep to keep vigil by his brother's side before losing him forever? For no child resists sleep save for a grave cause, and a brother's death is graver than all. But still-who is the traitor?
Christ speaks of betrayal. Perhaps deep within he knows the one. But why this air of tension? Why did the disciples divide, each defending his innocence with all his might-instead of protecting him? John, Peter, Andrew, James the Lesser (son of Alphaeus), Bartholomew, James son of Zebedee, Philip, Thomas, Matthew, Thaddaeus, Simon the Zealot and... Judas. I pause suddenly between the two heroes of the canvas: shadow and light. How the shadow unmasked the traitor, and how the light revealed the faces of the innocent. I woke today, seeking that majestic painting again. But I found no disciples, only a family gathered round a still body. A mother's hand rests on his head, as if begging him to return to life. Sisters read the Gospel, imploring the heavens to grant him one handful more of breath. My eyes cling to every face, sparing no one. Minutes pass, yet I cannot tell: who is the traitor? The Last Supper taught me that no scene is complete without one. Is it the mother who weeps for her son? The sister who pleads with God not to host her brother today, to grant him a few more days in their embrace? Is it the small child, who denied himself sleep to keep vigil by his brother's side before losing him forever? For no child resists sleep save for a grave cause, and a brother's death is graver than all. But still-who is the traitor?
Christ speaks of betrayal. Perhaps deep within he knows the one. But why this air of tension? Why did the disciples divide, each defending his innocence with all his might-instead of protecting him? John, Peter, Andrew, James the Lesser (son of Alphaeus), Bartholomew, James son of Zebedee, Philip, Thomas, Matthew, Thaddaeus, Simon the Zealot and... Judas. I pause suddenly between the two heroes of the canvas: shadow and light. How the shadow unmasked the traitor, and how the light revealed the faces of the innocent. I woke today, seeking that majestic painting again. But I found no disciples, only a family gathered round a still body. A mother's hand rests on his head, as if begging him to return to life. Sisters read the Gospel, imploring the heavens to grant him one handful more of breath. My eyes cling to every face, sparing no one. Minutes pass, yet I cannot tell: who is the traitor? The Last Supper taught me that no scene is complete without one. Is it the mother who weeps for her son? The sister who pleads with God not to host her brother today, to grant him a few more days in their embrace? Is it the small child, who denied himself sleep to keep vigil by his brother's side before losing him forever? For no child resists sleep save for a grave cause, and a brother's death is graver than all. But still-who is the traitor?
The Betrayal of Shadow and the Silence of Light by Joy In the sacred stillness of Da Vinci's Last Supper, I once gazed upon that solemn silence, my soul entangled in every shadow, every line, every hue. My eyes, like pilgrims, wandered through the scene, returning again and again to that eternal grace. Questions surged within me like waves: Why did Da Vinci choose to paint the Last Supper? Why bind those final moments into a canvas that became an immortal emblem of human art? Is it true that all that is final, all that is sorrowful, carries a beauty that renders it eternal? Why does the world exult in elegy, in the rituals of farewell, when so often it yields to slumber at the very moments it should resist the causes of parting? My eyes roam again: now around Christ, now around the disciples. I push among them, questioning, reproaching, lamenting: How could you not save him? How could you not save the scene from the last farewell, from the Last Supper? I search with my eyes, O Lord-who among them is the traitor? All surround Christ with warmth and love. Now you have made it harder for me: encircling him from every side, sharing bread, exchanging words, fearing for him as he fears for you. Who, then, is the traitor?
The Betrayal of Shadow and the Silence of Light by Joy In the sacred stillness of Da Vinci's Last Supper, I once gazed upon that solemn silence, my soul entangled in every shadow, every line, every hue. My eyes, like pilgrims, wandered through the scene, returning again and again to that eternal grace. Questions surged within me like waves: Why did Da Vinci choose to paint the Last Supper? Why bind those final moments into a canvas that became an immortal emblem of human art? Is it true that all that is final, all that is sorrowful, carries a beauty that renders it eternal? Why does the world exult in elegy, in the rituals of farewell, when so often it yields to slumber at the very moments it should resist the causes of parting? My eyes roam again: now around Christ, now around the disciples. I push among them, questioning, reproaching, lamenting: How could you not save him? How could you not save the scene from the last farewell, from the Last Supper? I search with my eyes, O Lord-who among them is the traitor? All surround Christ with warmth and love. Now you have made it harder for me: encircling him from every side, sharing bread, exchanging words, fearing for him as he fears for you. Who, then, is the traitor?
The Betrayal of Shadow and the Silence of Light by Joy In the sacred stillness of Da Vinci's Last Supper, I once gazed upon that solemn silence, my soul entangled in every shadow, every line, every hue. My eyes, like pilgrims, wandered through the scene, returning again and again to that eternal grace. Questions surged within me like waves: Why did Da Vinci choose to paint the Last Supper? Why bind those final moments into a canvas that became an immortal emblem of human art? Is it true that all that is final, all that is sorrowful, carries a beauty that renders it eternal? Why does the world exult in elegy, in the rituals of farewell, when so often it yields to slumber at the very moments it should resist the causes of parting? My eyes roam again: now around Christ, now around the disciples. I push among them, questioning, reproaching, lamenting: How could you not save him? How could you not save the scene from the last farewell, from the Last Supper? I search with my eyes, O Lord-who among them is the traitor? All surround Christ with warmth and love. Now you have made it harder for me: encircling him from every side, sharing bread, exchanging words, fearing for him as he fears for you. Who, then, is the traitor?
Joy
@joynewacc@mastodon.social  ·  activity timestamp 6 days ago
Again I trace the two heroes: shadow and light. But today I see no light. O Lord, how have they betrayed me now? Is it no longer a masterwork? All that remains is shadow-no light at all... save for the faint glow upon the dead man's face. So who is the traitor? Is it I? You? Or this world that allowed a family to taste its final farewell, a world that stood in silence before all that unfolds? There is no traitor today but the one who funded the massacre, who armed it, who fed it. There is no traitor today but the one who watches. O Lord, how the painting has incarnated in this bitter reality. The colors have faded, some features lost, yet the deepest element still remains: sorrow... grief... betrayal. And silence, that savage silence, which once rose from the traitor of Christ, and now rises from the traitors of the victims of genocide.
Again I trace the two heroes: shadow and light. But today I see no light. O Lord, how have they betrayed me now? Is it no longer a masterwork? All that remains is shadow-no light at all... save for the faint glow upon the dead man's face. So who is the traitor? Is it I? You? Or this world that allowed a family to taste its final farewell, a world that stood in silence before all that unfolds? There is no traitor today but the one who funded the massacre, who armed it, who fed it. There is no traitor today but the one who watches. O Lord, how the painting has incarnated in this bitter reality. The colors have faded, some features lost, yet the deepest element still remains: sorrow... grief... betrayal. And silence, that savage silence, which once rose from the traitor of Christ, and now rises from the traitors of the victims of genocide.
Again I trace the two heroes: shadow and light. But today I see no light. O Lord, how have they betrayed me now? Is it no longer a masterwork? All that remains is shadow-no light at all... save for the faint glow upon the dead man's face. So who is the traitor? Is it I? You? Or this world that allowed a family to taste its final farewell, a world that stood in silence before all that unfolds? There is no traitor today but the one who funded the massacre, who armed it, who fed it. There is no traitor today but the one who watches. O Lord, how the painting has incarnated in this bitter reality. The colors have faded, some features lost, yet the deepest element still remains: sorrow... grief... betrayal. And silence, that savage silence, which once rose from the traitor of Christ, and now rises from the traitors of the victims of genocide.
Christ speaks of betrayal. Perhaps deep within he knows the one. But why this air of tension? Why did the disciples divide, each defending his innocence with all his might-instead of protecting him? John, Peter, Andrew, James the Lesser (son of Alphaeus), Bartholomew, James son of Zebedee, Philip, Thomas, Matthew, Thaddaeus, Simon the Zealot and... Judas. I pause suddenly between the two heroes of the canvas: shadow and light. How the shadow unmasked the traitor, and how the light revealed the faces of the innocent. I woke today, seeking that majestic painting again. But I found no disciples, only a family gathered round a still body. A mother's hand rests on his head, as if begging him to return to life. Sisters read the Gospel, imploring the heavens to grant him one handful more of breath. My eyes cling to every face, sparing no one. Minutes pass, yet I cannot tell: who is the traitor? The Last Supper taught me that no scene is complete without one. Is it the mother who weeps for her son? The sister who pleads with God not to host her brother today, to grant him a few more days in their embrace? Is it the small child, who denied himself sleep to keep vigil by his brother's side before losing him forever? For no child resists sleep save for a grave cause, and a brother's death is graver than all. But still-who is the traitor?
Christ speaks of betrayal. Perhaps deep within he knows the one. But why this air of tension? Why did the disciples divide, each defending his innocence with all his might-instead of protecting him? John, Peter, Andrew, James the Lesser (son of Alphaeus), Bartholomew, James son of Zebedee, Philip, Thomas, Matthew, Thaddaeus, Simon the Zealot and... Judas. I pause suddenly between the two heroes of the canvas: shadow and light. How the shadow unmasked the traitor, and how the light revealed the faces of the innocent. I woke today, seeking that majestic painting again. But I found no disciples, only a family gathered round a still body. A mother's hand rests on his head, as if begging him to return to life. Sisters read the Gospel, imploring the heavens to grant him one handful more of breath. My eyes cling to every face, sparing no one. Minutes pass, yet I cannot tell: who is the traitor? The Last Supper taught me that no scene is complete without one. Is it the mother who weeps for her son? The sister who pleads with God not to host her brother today, to grant him a few more days in their embrace? Is it the small child, who denied himself sleep to keep vigil by his brother's side before losing him forever? For no child resists sleep save for a grave cause, and a brother's death is graver than all. But still-who is the traitor?
Christ speaks of betrayal. Perhaps deep within he knows the one. But why this air of tension? Why did the disciples divide, each defending his innocence with all his might-instead of protecting him? John, Peter, Andrew, James the Lesser (son of Alphaeus), Bartholomew, James son of Zebedee, Philip, Thomas, Matthew, Thaddaeus, Simon the Zealot and... Judas. I pause suddenly between the two heroes of the canvas: shadow and light. How the shadow unmasked the traitor, and how the light revealed the faces of the innocent. I woke today, seeking that majestic painting again. But I found no disciples, only a family gathered round a still body. A mother's hand rests on his head, as if begging him to return to life. Sisters read the Gospel, imploring the heavens to grant him one handful more of breath. My eyes cling to every face, sparing no one. Minutes pass, yet I cannot tell: who is the traitor? The Last Supper taught me that no scene is complete without one. Is it the mother who weeps for her son? The sister who pleads with God not to host her brother today, to grant him a few more days in their embrace? Is it the small child, who denied himself sleep to keep vigil by his brother's side before losing him forever? For no child resists sleep save for a grave cause, and a brother's death is graver than all. But still-who is the traitor?
The Betrayal of Shadow and the Silence of Light by Joy In the sacred stillness of Da Vinci's Last Supper, I once gazed upon that solemn silence, my soul entangled in every shadow, every line, every hue. My eyes, like pilgrims, wandered through the scene, returning again and again to that eternal grace. Questions surged within me like waves: Why did Da Vinci choose to paint the Last Supper? Why bind those final moments into a canvas that became an immortal emblem of human art? Is it true that all that is final, all that is sorrowful, carries a beauty that renders it eternal? Why does the world exult in elegy, in the rituals of farewell, when so often it yields to slumber at the very moments it should resist the causes of parting? My eyes roam again: now around Christ, now around the disciples. I push among them, questioning, reproaching, lamenting: How could you not save him? How could you not save the scene from the last farewell, from the Last Supper? I search with my eyes, O Lord-who among them is the traitor? All surround Christ with warmth and love. Now you have made it harder for me: encircling him from every side, sharing bread, exchanging words, fearing for him as he fears for you. Who, then, is the traitor?
The Betrayal of Shadow and the Silence of Light by Joy In the sacred stillness of Da Vinci's Last Supper, I once gazed upon that solemn silence, my soul entangled in every shadow, every line, every hue. My eyes, like pilgrims, wandered through the scene, returning again and again to that eternal grace. Questions surged within me like waves: Why did Da Vinci choose to paint the Last Supper? Why bind those final moments into a canvas that became an immortal emblem of human art? Is it true that all that is final, all that is sorrowful, carries a beauty that renders it eternal? Why does the world exult in elegy, in the rituals of farewell, when so often it yields to slumber at the very moments it should resist the causes of parting? My eyes roam again: now around Christ, now around the disciples. I push among them, questioning, reproaching, lamenting: How could you not save him? How could you not save the scene from the last farewell, from the Last Supper? I search with my eyes, O Lord-who among them is the traitor? All surround Christ with warmth and love. Now you have made it harder for me: encircling him from every side, sharing bread, exchanging words, fearing for him as he fears for you. Who, then, is the traitor?
The Betrayal of Shadow and the Silence of Light by Joy In the sacred stillness of Da Vinci's Last Supper, I once gazed upon that solemn silence, my soul entangled in every shadow, every line, every hue. My eyes, like pilgrims, wandered through the scene, returning again and again to that eternal grace. Questions surged within me like waves: Why did Da Vinci choose to paint the Last Supper? Why bind those final moments into a canvas that became an immortal emblem of human art? Is it true that all that is final, all that is sorrowful, carries a beauty that renders it eternal? Why does the world exult in elegy, in the rituals of farewell, when so often it yields to slumber at the very moments it should resist the causes of parting? My eyes roam again: now around Christ, now around the disciples. I push among them, questioning, reproaching, lamenting: How could you not save him? How could you not save the scene from the last farewell, from the Last Supper? I search with my eyes, O Lord-who among them is the traitor? All surround Christ with warmth and love. Now you have made it harder for me: encircling him from every side, sharing bread, exchanging words, fearing for him as he fears for you. Who, then, is the traitor?
Richard
@richard@allmyneighbors.earth  ·  activity timestamp last week
Richard
@richard@allmyneighbors.earth  ·  activity timestamp last week
Joy
@joynewacc@mastodon.social  ·  activity timestamp last week
Joy
@joynewacc@mastodon.social  ·  activity timestamp last week
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