Flower swordsman

Hurry up, my love, hurry up, two frightened lovers, two lovers defenseless except from the night and sighs are the sword and shield of revolutions. I call to you, my beloved, and my fingers hover from idea to idea and from page to page, disbelieving to smell corpses and not see them, my death is close to a branch over my head, so be the last flowers, I am the last grove of poetry in this world and there is no fence for me, I am a distant star in the long night of the poor that must be extinguished, a distant rock in the road in any peak that stumbles and twists the ascenders and bellies that must be removed, the time for scratches and small obstacles has passed. But I am torn between the pain of falling and the shame of being rescued, afraid of dying alone in a dark, discordant room and having my corpse discovered only by the smell and the sighs of passersby. My days are numbered, and my hours of love are dwindling like rations during a siege. It is said that the heads of those condemned to death in unruly revolutions, even after the blades of the knuckles have knocked them off and rolled them towards the legs of the masses, still retain for a moment their expressions of horror, hope and disappointment, and continue to plead with those around them with looks of surprise, reproach and questioning. This is how I look at your ropes and your valleys, your land and your sky, my homeland.
When the love of the homeland is awakened in the heart, the words become sweeter, and when its image inhabits the eyeballs, the scene becomes more beautiful. In his texts, Mohammed Al-Maghut is the swordsman of flowers, as if he carries the word as a sword, in his duels in the arena of the homeland.