the question will remain: why among thousands of faces crossed us don't fall in love except the face that we can't see except by hard selves? why among all the shoulders are adjacent to us, our head isn't falling on the shoulder between us and between it the distance of the earth, habits and society? why always the love coming strong, late and impossible? you aren't related to only one person, but related to his family, his friends and his cidy. you love even the strange trim for some characters. there are times I glance you in the way though I'm in a city and you in a city. I don't care in the correctly road or easy or impossible, just tell me which of these ways ends with you and I will choose it.
كـ الحرباء داهيةٌ في الذكاء
نكدية في بعض الأوقات
حنونة دائمًا
ومثل عود كبريتٍ
سريعةُ الاشتعال
هـي مثل جيش احتلال
مثل لُغم موثوق
مثل قضية اغتيال
هـي شرِسة
قوية و عنيدة
و بداخلها
ألفُ فكرة و جِدال
تجمعت بها كُل الخِصال
وجعلت للقوة عنـوان
لهبت نار الأنتقام فـي قلبها
وكان ســلاحها كيـدها
واثبتت وصف سقراط بها:
"امرأة مثـل الشجرة المسمومة التي يكون ظاهرها جميلاً،
لكن الطيور تموت عندما تأكل منها"
-بـ قلمي الكاتبة "سارة الحـسن"