Mohammed Najeh Trabelsi
The years are heavy,
the years are heavy, until I think
Do not ask my prayer at the age of forty
But since that passed, it accelerated
And he has mastered the enemy behind the dead.
After two years, they were
As the wind swells in the remains of the passage
I called her forty forever.
He is still young at the age of two
I still have not harvested the harvest with my hand
Fraud the dust of the forehead
I still dream of tearing up my amazement
Life has been reorganized even though
I still planted poems in the lips
Water flows in the legs of toil
I am always looking for a companion of my blood
You do not ulcerate in the rebels’ throats.
I’m still looking for tomorrow to ask myself
What is hidden in the baskets of dreamers?