Windows prose poem

Photo by fen-tastic

Tents are crowded by windows, but missing walls and a jasmine flower.

A window is a border between consciousness and sub-consciousness, between Ego and its annihilation.

A home without a window is a blind man with no sticks and no legs.

A window is a shortage of cement, and abundance of light.

Windows are eyes not blinking, are fish in water-less ocean.

When windows die, walls become mourning clothes.

A window is improvising beyond the text of the tribal play.

A window at day time is a victory of the self over its killers; at night it is an extension of the street.

When a wall stands up in front of the window, a bracelet falls down from a wrist.

Melancholy is a bird caged in a bosom with no windows.

Curtains are reversed eyelashes behind windows; that’s why they don’t know the shape of winds.

At the edge of windows, coffee takes the taste of songs and dust takes the scent of clay.

When rain falls on the glass of a window, storms feel warm.

A window is the residue of common property, whereas behind the wall rests ownership.

A window is a legal method to possess a piece of the sky.

A bird’s dance at the window is a reminding of lost liberties.

A door is a path to land;
a window is a path to heaven.

A window has the shape of square and the essence of breaking frames into flux.

Between two windows, there stretches a bridge of air between two potential lovers.

Windows in huts is the reflection of misery in mirrors.

Lamps jailed inside houses go out freely at nights, through windows.

Flower pots at windows are multi-color kohl.

Parisian bare windows are an open invitation to the sun.

Snow over windows flames fire inside.

If windows would have been circular, people might have gone out of their boxes.

A tree standing outside the window is a queen without subjects.

A window rising above a street is the victory of the private over the public, of the personal over the state.

A window is a curtain, behind which an actor attends a play carried out by the audience.

A window at war time is a hole without a shell.

In glass houses windows pass away to pension.

A window is an open book written by a language without letters.

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Fareed K. Ghanem

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I am 58 years old, from eastern Galilee, Israel (Palestine). I studied English literature, psychology and Law at the Hebrew university (Jerusalem). In the last three years, I published three books of which is dedicated to prose poetry. You are invited to visit the Facebook page Shadows of Water, where I publish my prose poems I translate to English.
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2 Comments on "Windows"

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Dr.Indu Nautiyal

”Windows ” offers glimpses of an immensely reflective mind .Loved going through it .


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