The Bleeding Ghost

The heart of the Sword was broken, by the beauty encrypted in the sorrows of life.

Devoted words unspoken, in the exile of the wise.

Vanished by our unicity, in the timeless Life's university. Away from the audience sight,

our dust kept failing to reflect the light back into their eyes.

We started walking on the bridge of the unseen dreams, crossing by hopeless pedestrians. Passed by doubts if we are real, we started waiving our hands asking them:" can you see us? are we here?" Our hearts were surely beating, yet our image was certainly unclear. Buried alive like an invisible seed, breathing the hopes of becoming a fruit, in the deep hardships of the soil. Yet alive..

Our only refuge was the warmth of a broken angel's wing, dropped from the sky of a root's prayer to become the growing wise tree. Nurtured by the spring of emotions, guided by the light of understanding. We try to see..

And God decided to breath the spirit in the bleeding miseries of a murdered ghost that is trying to rise up from the dead. Exposing the hidden truth in the far realms, of the unseen wisdom of life and death.

Resurrected every day, on the crosses of the spoken breath.

By societies that see only money and materialistic wealth.

The bleeding ghost suddenly learned, from things that make life pleasured and deserved; like the answer of God for a sad praying prophet.. A mother's tender call of love that is free of profit.. That priceless moment of witnessing a comet.. And the friendship of Solitude from the curse of a nation's gossip...

He signed his will to live, with the ink of sorrow. through a crying pen from the slowly suffers of agony he borrowed. stuck in the middle between the past and tomorrow.. time was running fast.. faster than a gentle struck of love from Cupid's arrow.

Written by Hassan Ismail

Author of the Riddle of life