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The departed, part too, from  my cry
Sikandar Abu Zafar

The bloody angered gaze, burnt down history of my barren land
Those years of mine
Today whence a knife I hold strong
Seeker of the precipice bleeding , slit throat
What will be the use to muse along the cuddle?
Of the rattling killer boa? Still in the pandora box?
It is I who am to blame
I own my key to my security
You lift up your veil , indifference
Where lasting silhouettes gather together, remnants
The departed, part too, from my cry

Meticulous a measured fit , among shoes within walkway
Garnished a gift a floral bouquet, handed to your may
A fragrant wishful one
Never traced your truth in fathom in return
The muse and your truest clues 
Only to fit the underneath inverse, a muddy constellation
Today, the memory lane
Insulting a pour hemlock door 
A bitter soul seeking solace from those clawed nocturnals of the dark.
What is the use of a pleasant gaze
Camouflaging the phantom with the laughter behind 
I am bruising with the loaded kind 
Exquisitely mine
You , inhaler toxin of my airy dust, dispersing heavily so
Wipe away your first alibi
The departed, part too, from my cry

THe unity when the dreamers dream
Clouds came to soak first
The blisters of the barren
Off and on, the draught brought in
Had me startled in taking preparation
My compassion is your sophism
PLus minus , quite surplused
Decoded sheets with those covetous intricate shares, dusty
Today, I dug my grave
My own
THe shovel of my skull
Had a menacing lightening struck form
What will it be to dwindle unsure
Unresolved hatred in a sleepy volcano 
I will make them return the scars
The clawed scar tissue that incurred a lot on me 

You shy away from my soil and water , a carpet sitting on green try
The departed, part too, from my cry


In Damascus (Short film)
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