I'm one of those who started writing "the poet" on Facebook a decade ago, when the attack on this new phenomenon was seen by poets, critics and educators, and in the shape of the hardest and hardest, I'll never forget the kind of shame that my script was, and it's bound to say, despite pretending to be trustworthy.

You can imagine how a person who is ashamed of what he writes, spreads his script to one of the communicators, and then wishes to disappear from existence or break the earth and swallow it, despite his deep sense that what he wrote is good, I am also not a very small person, who has spent books and literature on a fair and self-determined basis.

But the poet is used to it, relying on it to the extent that a poet or jewellery is spreading, even if it is-- it's terrifying for him, not just that success, fame and high selling ratios are something that is incompatible with the essence and writing of the poet, which is often the way to the eternal rule: this is not a fierce, and it's not a poet.

When the media came, they changed everything, and this change is in fact only part of the nature of life that's always advanced, and if technology and digitality have gone on all aspects of life, then why would you rule out the poet?

That's how the hair exploded, it can't be counted or counted, and the poet came out of ordinary people, unknown or dedicated, just dreamed of writing it. This is a new poet, a police, not a literary culture, but a deep sense of people, things and attitudes, which may be found in a greenstorm on the corner, and no one who studied ten years in college, reads a thousand books, and here brings me what the French poet said. Paul Valerie. A century ago that: "There are poets who didn't write one poem in their lives, murderers who didn't break one drop of blood."

We moved from a time when poets were seen as distinctive artistic or intellectual voices, and part of the cultural elite, unavailable, to poets who were closer to influencers, called the Instapoiters, any instagram poets, who were in contact with their thieves or who were in direct and permanent interaction with their villagers, and who entered the business market (sale books, scripts, texting). Robbie Cor. Canadian poets of Indian origin, which emerged on Instagram by writing short-patterns with simple drawings, whose religion has achieved imaginary milk and honey. Lang Liv. New Zealand poets and artists of Cambodian origin, intensely active on sites such as Anstagram and Facebook, whose meditational and romantic poems were important to many translators around the world, including the Arab world, making them far with their texts, thanks to communicating sites and the unknown poet, the name of which is now visible.Atticus.As a metaphor, which added ambiguity to which the media audience was attracted, Atticus publishes mostly short-patterns in English on Instagram, relying on romance and streamlined presence, a simple, short-size-fixing method, whose texts have been transformed into the quotations of the world, which has succeeded in converting its digital texts into books.

But Instagram is not the only platform. Many Arab and world poets found in Facebook space for live interaction with their villagers, and Twitter is an area to try short poems or digital haeko in only 280 letters.

When the most important existential, philosophical and political issues were poetic, the poet today focused on personal and daily feelings, individual experiences, such as love, depression, anxiety and self-recovery, so the poet became an art very close to people, because he was touching them more.

The complex language of hard hair, deep scriptures, cultural and historical references, written in long or medium texts, is now an easy, simple and straightforward language for anyone, we are in short texts, closer to being quoted, which, despite its flaws, makes poet reading easier, accessible and free of charge.

Yeah, she returned platforms like Facebook, Instagram, Tech Tok, and others, resurrection of hair for a young man who was away from him, but is that all?

And to be objective, I will not deny what seems to be clear, that all these positives have not come without negatives on poets, poets and even readers.

The attraction of every person who makes digital content does not, of course, exclude poets. The image becomes necessary to accompany the script.

In the end, there is an unchanging fact, not time, and no change of reality and its media, that the hair is inherent in life, unleashing its skin, opening the windows of the soul to the world.

(BROAN WARING)

Brother... The war is over.

They took your tank to the iron smelter.

But your gun is still on the mountain.

And here comes the sand on your salad.

The peasant grows his field where I fell.

Because the trees you planted...

She died, too.

The mountain that you've robotized.

Don't spare him alive.

Enemies flow to the top.

And get off the face.

I saw you.

Every time.

Before your last fall.

The enemy takes your suit and your annulment.

And whatever you are, brother.

They were killing your body with bullets.

Even in your last death.

When the worm was falling out of your quarry,

And your big heart open.

They thought you were lying.

And you're still their nightmare.

Do it, brother. The war is over.

And there's the kids in the park.

And the balls you've been seeing.

From fire and metal,

I'm cold, and they're saving her.

In their feet.

Except the ball that fell near her.

That's the one that sent your body a shelf..

We're here in the village.

No war, no enemies.

A horizon of rare vibrations.

It just forms under our pillows.

We've forgotten some of our surgeons.

And we could feed some of our daggers.

Old.

But all we want.

That our dogs won't bark but a guest.

My mom's still in bed.

Talk about your height and your strong muscle.

It takes her a lot.

They didn't find shoes on your size.

She was asking me.

On which side did you sleep?

Scared me to tell her.

You haven't slept in seven years.

And the fragment that broke your ribs.

It was from a powerful gun.

And you left your whole life.

And I left the sun.

Strange on your names and dreams.

And I've been on my skin.

That's it.

And the distance between your life

And your death is six children.

*I'm sorry.

Student AbdelazizAn Iraqi poet working in hair, hair working for him, they both work hard to offer what's different to eye, hear, and other senses. "A color candy."

In 1993, he published his famous poem. (BROAN WARING)It is a legacy that he wrote when his brother quoted, and it made a sealed fusion in the audiences, that it was a form of polite against the idea of war, but in a roaming way, standing on the threshold of fear of the throne of the ruling regime, and the defamation that the poem was quoted. It is also one tongue of millions of communicators with their sons and brothers, which has made the poem spread as a blessed prayer, while the poem has not received monetary treatment that is commensurate with its importance when it comes out, as the inscription in its linguistic soil can lead the prospectors to find the poet ' s and those who are experimenting with the monetary analysis of the poem.

"It is indeed surprising that the poem has not been rejected by the sergeant that the State was putting in place to prevent the publication of anything that it deems incompatible with, although the poet strongly declares not only his rejection of the war, but his firm affirmation that this war was futile, and the indication of that is the title of the poem, as he wants to say that this war was my brother's war. So he lost his life because of her, while others came back to their normal lives because it wasn't their war, and that's a bitter irony that the poet even passed on the neck of print in that difficult and cruel era of Iraq's life."(1).

A poem. "My brother's war." It's deeply disastrous to carry her reading on a delicate journey through memory halls and the loss of war and the devastating effect on the breath, through a few arduous images, to reflect the deepest sorrow of his brother's departure, and despite the end of the war itself, the emotional effects of the war are the same.

The uniqueness of the poem is due to its excess of political or national affiliations; it is a rampant cry between different walls of cultures, in terms of addressing the trauma caused by violence and the sanctity of memory carried by lives, and the quiet devastation beyond the time of the alleged heroism.

The poem begins with an intel with a certain irony: Brother, the war is over.And that gives the advice of a sarcasm and arrogance to the waves, although the war may be over by definition of the geospace, it is not a time-control, but it's still pulse in memory and the remains of the bodies of the dead.

With the phrase They took your tank to the iron smelter. A deep indication of the dispossession of the tournament from its personal nature, the fact that the soldier's life, despite its appreciation, is ultimately reduced to a mere metal wreck, while the sentence says,But your gun is still on the mountain.With a symbolic reference to the abandonment of the task or duty which has not been completed, and may reflect the mountain ' s rejection of the violence generated by human beings, however, this abandonment itself remains inextricably linked to the devotion of the brother, deepening the meanings associated with sacrifice and human paradox.

Nature in the poem doesn't look negative or renovated; it's hurt and collusive. "And the sand has finally come to your salad, the crocodile is planting his field in which you fell, It suggests burial of the body and ideals by employing sand, which is a classic symbol of time and demise, heroism here swallows itself, and trees do the same. 'Cause the trees you planted, you died too, As a sign of the totality of the war against creatures.

Perhaps the most influential part of the poem lies in the disparity between the past that war and the post-war present, the children are now playing with what was previously death tools:

"and the balls you've been seeing from fire and metal,

I'm cold,

And they're throwing it in their feet."

This shift from weapons to games is both beautiful and terrifying, and it represents peace and steadfastness on the one hand, and on the other, reduces the brutality of war, seizing it to active beauty, breaking its slice in which it says.Except the ball you fell near, the one that turned your body around, In my hair description of death, borrowing the wings' job to describe the spirit's way to the sky.، While the mother represents the death scene, like the rest of the triangles, holding the memories and legends of her son: And it takes her so much that they didn't find shoes on your size..

I am proud of her son ' s uniqueness, and perhaps with the divine exception of being the artisanal and graphic martyr, bigger than the world, while re-importing the adjustment that the mothers who are eager to ask about the martyr as if they were alive: "She was asking me on any side you were sleeping، Scared me to tell her you haven't slept in seven years, This question and its conclusive response reflect the physical absence and an enduring peace that deprives both living and dead.

The poem's tone is lame, thin, bitter, and imaginative, with an earful of Arab poetic heritage, especially in repeating it, bringing it to the dead, blending it between natural images, body and passion, with no stringent rhythm or weight structure, reflecting the discomfortful state of the spokesperson, and sounding a precision.

This poem can be read in the context of any modern conflict - an Eastern European, Eastern European or African - but its strength lies in its universality, it does not call war, enemy or ideology, and this absence allows the poem to serve as a sign of history and trauma.

“My brother's war. A deep reflection of the remnants of violence and the value of sacrifices, and what makes this poem exceptional is to merge it between personal, political and rich, it doesn't add up to citation, but it doesn't heal it, it tends to make a human character to lose in a time that's often easier.

___________________

1 d. Bader Hassani's footsteps.

In the age of artificial intelligence, many of the concepts associated with this massive revolution in the world of digitization, informatics and automation, including the concept of the concept of the world of religion, information and automation, are infiltrated into our daily lives. «Avatar.» Avatar -- this digital representation of the same or the other -- until the front we deal with the world, and sometimes with ourselves in many social networking platforms, allows Facebook users to create a cartoon-like character, used in comments, estory, conversations, and switches to a three-dimensional representation that is used to surf within the virtual 20s.

In Greek myths, Pigmaloans loved a statue that he swept in his hands, and the gods survived, the story that was found in the Book of Transformation, in the statues of a great Cypriot woman named Biggalone, was obsessed with finding unsatisfactory uniforms in the mind of the feminist, and in the eclipse of a woman.

In our time, the user makes representations from hypothetical data and images, programmed to match it or to reflect a dream that it does not find in reality, but in Arab poetry, before humanity knows the digital revolution, camera, computer or virtual reality, Kass bin Mulu invented a unique form of avatar: Leila in his heart, not walking on the ground.

Received in part X of the bookThe songs."My father has a strange story about the news of a priest, quoting her that some of his friends wanted to cure him from his madness, and they came to him with a hidden elephant. «What I need is that Lily in my heart changed this.«And the same story comes in a slightly different version inEnd of the rabbit."for the Norwegian, then. «Tell him, "This is her, my heart is looking at her and says, "God, I'm giving you the evil of these."«I'm sorry.

This wasn't cruel, it was a spectacular poetry about the death of the body in front of the immortality of the image.

With this unique genius sentence, Kass Ben has breached the limits of the traditional concept of love, and founded on the idea that self may not relate directly to the other, but through a symbolic mediator created by fantasy, as if a priest had long before the advent of enhanced reality or techniques of hypothetical reality (Virtual reality), a man does not like the other, but rather as he imagines and wants it to be.

What we have done, and what a great deal of Arab poets have been after and before (in here we remember the story of the valley of genius and poetry demons, and the ability to compare this idea with hypothetical reality), is only an advanced formulation of what we call the avatars, but the fundamental difference is that Arab poetry frees the acets from the cold technical dimension of escaping and making them more irous.

On the other hand, the digital archaeology today, no matter how spectacular it may seem, is a delightful picture of a general night in a crazy fantasy: it is conditional on data, limited by preparation, and is in the user ' s mouth instead of opening up to it as a probability. «I like names like that. Her name's approved or was from him.

I'm counting nights after night, and I've lived a day.»I'm sorry.

Today, as we make smart statues, we talk and talk, and we wear digital faces that interact with symbols and imoys, we should reflect on the experience of a priest.

If we look more closely at the Arab poetic heritage, we will find another spectacular simulation of the story of Qis, the story of the orphan poem, which will be summarized as received by Judge Ali Bin Mohsen al-Tinukh and published by the Egyptian Red Crescent magazine (J3, 14, 1 December 1905, p. 174). «One of the daughters of a great prince named Naddd, was a great poet, with a nose, and her deceit from her father met a large group of princes who would not marry but a man who had a haircut and organized poem. He considered that the poem was the highest layer of his poem, and if it came to support his response to her speech. The Devil had to kill his own man and impersonate his poem, kill him, carry the poem until he came to find it, and he went down to that prince, tell him what he had to come. His accent was conceived that it was not an inspiration, but that during the intransigence of fathers, it had been heard that her organization was an abhorrent. She spelled her father "kill this, he fought Ali" and they arrested him, questioned him, confessed.»The story, my dear reader, may appear from the fabric of popular tales, but it has a deep intellectual glance that brings us back to the middle of the twentieth century, when the British mathematics world has formulated Alan Turing what is known today as »Torring test.«He's one of the most famous concepts in artificial intelligence.

If we look more closely at the Arab poetic heritage, we will find another spectacular simulation of the story of Qis, the story of the orphan poem, which will be summarized as received by Judge Ali Bin Mohsen al-Tinukh and published by the Egyptian Red Crescent magazine (J3, 14, 1 December 1905, p. 174). «One of the daughters of a great prince named Naddd, was a great poet, with a nose, and her deceit from her father met a large group of princes who would not marry but a man who had a haircut and organized poem. He considered that the poem was the highest layer of his poem, and if it came to support his response to her speech. The Devil had to kill his own man and impersonate his poem, kill him, carry the poem until he came to find it, and he went down to that prince, tell him what he had to come. His accent was conceived that it was not an inspiration, but that during the intransigence of fathers, it had been heard that her organization was an abhorrent. She spelled her father "kill this, he fought Ali" and they arrested him, questioned him, confessed.»The story, my dear reader, may appear from the fabric of popular tales, but it has a deep intellectual glance that brings us back to the middle of the twentieth century, when the British mathematics world has formulated Alan Turing what is known today as »Torring test.«He's one of the most famous concepts in artificial intelligence.

Here the genius of the picket shows: in the story of a cortex, we find an impulsive, lethal poet with a hairy voice that does not have. The human machine (fighter) fails to test and the princess shouts in the face of a false poet: " You're a murderer on me " , not because the poem is weak, but because it fails in the true enthusiasm of its owner, and the machine of artificial intelligence today fails to write one text near the spirit of the poetry prophet, or to paint a painting that touches its blue and yellow world.

As a supporter, she performed a primitive and natural version of the Toring test, without needing programming or algorithms, but relying on instinct, taste and precise knowledge of the context, which are the tools of true governance even in today ' s artificial intelligence world.

The great paradox in the story of support is that the machine is not made of silicon, but of lies and envy, a machine that has sounded, but has not improved the role until the end. Telligence: «Robots/when they gave us the land, they give us our old skulls, you idiots, how did you invent love/how did you describe the rose?»I'm sorry.

A single, swollen image of a bigger picture, every harvest would be if you used search engines in an attempt to identify the features of the Egyptian poet, Walid Munir, you would find no other one but this picture if the search of the communicators and the others were to be deeper. There is no page with his name, no special account, no identification files, and even artificial intelligence will merely provide an inadequate portable definition based on a handful of articles, news and scattered texts, the follow-up of his death in 2009, as well as the names of some of his books and addresses... that is all we will find on the Internet from a remarkable poet experience of the 1970s, with a unique experience.

Walid Munir left about ten dwights influencing the Egyptian poetry march, starting with,The shepherd who surprised the easy one.To follow his important work, like,And Niles is green in the eyes.” (1985)، و”Long-distance poems (1989)Some time for a little surprise. (1994), andThat's my blood. That's my horn.And...Hand circuit.And..."One guitar and more than a player."And...Old taste of dreamAnd...Like a parachute with a flashlight."End of his last religion "The spirit plays music"A long-distance, quantitatively and qualitatively, poetry and academic career in Denyallah was only 52 years between his birth in 1957 and his death in 2009, after suffering with liver disease.

What if we add to this outstanding poetry balance of Walid Munir, as shown even by his doughnut, his cash balance of books, articles and research, that is an addition to his plays, he is one of the few who have committed theatre art between his generations.

So why didn't Walid Munir get his reputation among his peers?

A poet who's good at curtains.

Walid Munir used to hide, and on his own will, he was not the son of the noise and was not only present in their bodies, so the lens did not take his picture, neither the media and press followers published his name, but rather that a fantasy was needed to protect him from the noise at a time when everything was forced.

Walid bet on his hair, books and research, and that his talent will only guarantee his dignity, spread his hair and his work through magazines and periodicals and go to his condition, write and sickness. Old taste of the dream:

In the last bet on talent,

He'll jump over the dams. My horse.

To land in the good fall.

You'll write about the genius of my soul, the cloud.

And the bottles will explain the relationship between the poem and the experiment.

Tomorrow when the books fall.

When you rewrite her breath and the chance to catch him,

I'm gonna take you for a little time on a trip around a blue bow.

And I tell you what you're talking about spilling my hand into the glass conscience.

And I'm driving you to the farest star behind the ranch.

'70s.

In the '70s, the poetry in Egypt, and the subsequent generations of poetry dispersed with meaning and building, we are only promised Walid Munir. A little time on a rainbow trip."Inflammation, dilemmas, engagements, discontent or humiliation of the hair audience, and wide words, are all things that our poet has, in a time that the writers have ruled, not writers, and the difference between them is great.

Despite Walid Munir Balatar and Hair and the uninhabited new exploration of the lands of Al-Khalidah, he was not as described by his seventy-year term Muhammad Suleiman. "a loud poet who is in love with the traditions or coups that are aimed at excitement and attention, has affected calm, meditation, experience, embrace and crystallization.".

He knew his time wouldn't approve of him and he wouldn't guarantee his seat, so he bet on tomorrow he wouldn't give us any more. "The talk you spilled his hand in the Holy Spirit."Is this tomorrow where Walid Kenz is pleased to open, allows some lights to be given, has set the barricades and has not allowed anyone to approach, which he said:

"No one's right.

To see a treasure room.

I'm opening it.

Whenever I want to.

And give it from the sea sky.

It's a body spirit."

Rather, it did not come tomorrow where newborn hair will be extinguished in our hands, and if the lightning begins, it waves with the birth of a more tolerant hair generation that responds to all poetic forms, the new generation no longer fills with rigour and artificial defence around a form that I think is replaced only by the oldest generations of poets. Mostly my poetic tolerance passes through forms.

The former generations, who took control of the poetry scene in Egypt, Walid Munir, were held accountable for his activist activism, so they didn't exactly read it because he rather did not write the poem, as they had set, most generally. Otherwise, why didn't we see from among the generations of the 1980s and the pharmacies in Egypt who wrote about Walid Munir's hair?

Weird didn't get close.

"Wald Munir is a seven-year-old poet, yes, born among the poets of this generation, but if we come back for their glory, we would see our poet take a long side in this confusing time when two groups have shared."Voices And...Lighting."Blue the poetic light, and they fought their battles, rebels and ideologies, which later retreated from many of them.

My dream, Salem, Abdul Momen Ramadan and the other seventies, led the relentless, different and different experiences of this generation, as it provided for a coup d ' état on what the former had written from the pioneer generation, and they wanted to destroy the temple on the activation poem that they had departed from, in particular, the 60-stage poem and the slave of their own slave.

Against this backdrop, Walid Munir preferred to reintroduce in this text, the committed musical poem to pick up Hebron Ben Ahmed, to mobilize different new energy, to argue shape and to try to adopt its musical power in stimulating the language, seismicity and generating explosive poetry areas, which is not dry or merely a formal proposal or an unaccounted vacuum renewal attempt.

It's true that Walid solved his own dilemma, favoured the musical, even in his last cabinet, which he wrote in the shape of the poem, in which he was not removed from the legacy of music, name or form, but poet.Old taste of the dream." A vast cycle of meaning, the most recent real smooth coup within the operational poem, where it went to new and bright lands, rivers and seas, and perhaps even the furthest hairs of its generation, in ideas, intraction with poems.

I'll read Tagor again.

And I'm gonna love some people's ideas.

And I'll write about my old prophets.

And theories that have changed, and science will come.

That's enough to start now with two roses.

To restore my soul's friendship.

Because I'm imagining a knight, India and the kerosene.

He found out the golden number.

Who can shorten the universe's dialogue in a corn or a time.

And I'll meet Brahma.

And listen to Zoradst's words at sunset.

And eat in one dish with Buddha's...

That's how Walid Munir developed everywhere, lighter than the burdens some might have made of cases hiding behind her, so they might have found in the ambiguity looted and in the unwritten experiment, from accounting and asking, but a poet. "Walk with a flashlight." My father, unless the hair comes clearly and the issues are ripe, and he's got the mind. He didn't come as he says. "from the drunkenness of friends and drunks who wanted to go crazy.""He wanted to listen, shining, sniffing, touching and hearing sincerely the movement of the universe, listening to his soul, and challenging the deep void:

Toy like planets. Twenty-two years.

He threw his slice in the seas all.

And listen.

And a tattoo and a touch.

He didn't get close to it. This drink that friends proved.

The songs saw shrapnel.

And the baby's got masks.

And affection.

He saw them spin like a rose above the tables, completely dead.

But they're claiming they're giving up life.

As a pilot.ِ

The drunks who wanted him to go crazy.َ

And for the drunks who got high.

When they were almost a star.

You didn't still roll in his soul.

All those crap around him.ِ

All that comfort.

All these churches and puzzles?

And they're surprised that the boy wasn't still sane.

He challenges the deep void.َ

And he pays for mad dust...

And he sees us as the ambitions of his fantasies and his glasses about the hairs in which he is so unique, such as the fragmentation, the insanity, the obsession, the obsession, the obsession, and the use of the open text, which is unbelievable or the good engineering text, he has not made the sound of the newborn maner, in a time of reason. The other continent. Published in a magazine. «Creative.» February 1993:

But hail and blood were close to the clouds.

And they used to extort the legends of simple men, wide-lined.

And the dreams of good women, the soul collects flavors or sugar.

Benno Adam didn't know that the fire once came in the hands of the conqueror.

To light in the gods of the sorrows.

And throw their remains into the beach of Spain, slaves and naked.

He's a new god who inherits the world.

His nationals are selected from trade, military and marine avengers.

As much as I wanted to expand, we would like to acknowledge the efforts of Walid Munir al-Shari and fulfil his right as a critic of his great presence in monetary writing, and a balance of important studies at the top of his book on Salah Abdul Sabour: "The dramatic silver of sound."And a book.We criticize the combustion speech, And...The language and event controversy, And...The image of the prophet in the Arab poetry, And..."The exile journey in modern Arab poetry... The isolation of the place and the fallout of memory."and study it, Intersect circles. Research into the intersection of hair art with other arts."

So we'd like to visit the important playoff, with his playbook head. Amazing coronation party."but opportunities go on, and invitations won't stop to equate the experience of this fabulous poet, at least by reprinting or providing its work, so that new generations have the right to see this experience and greet the poet who did not have access but was caught on the same journey.

Stand on the sidewalk.

The sorrow of the station.

No lust for me to reach.

Get on the train.

The long train is like a arrow.

Get down the middle of the road.

Happy.

Happy.

Happy.

I walk in fields I don't know.

And he's fascinating in a door.

I don't promise her.

And talk rocks and legs...

There's poetry where the Arabs are, this language that shakes hearts and pulses with immortal poems, solves with them, automatically grows in the minds of all those who start to sing in the first words of the ocean, rests on the tongues, is signed, and the spirits are rooted in the hair, so they don't give up every seven speakers with their own tongue.

The Republic of Mali is not excluded from the rule above, but I will not be out of the right if it claims that the most Arab poets in Africa, except the Sudan, are financial, and as a matter of fact, we can claim that the best non-Arabic-speaking African poets from Mali, recognizing the primacy of poetry experiments in other continents, and not that this is an unsubstantiated claim of the past century, because the history and the patriarchy of the patriarchy of the patriarchy of the patriarchy.

Before opening a window for the current Arab poetry in Mali, it is imperative that the Arab history and poetry of the region be displayed rapidly, a show that will cost us no more than a return to the French colonization, where the Malian empires and Muslim kings, most notably the Sonjai empire, whose judgment has been extended from 1464m to 1591m, were brought to the Holy Father.

The briefing guy says: «I know that Mensa Musa, who we mentioned, was one of the major kings, as we said, accompanied by Abu Isaac Al-Sharaiya, a Tawiji of the Andalus, who met him in the season with a faculty. He was brought home to his country.»[1]And it says: «His uterus was the only fabric of literature, systems and abundance, in which no dust was found, the words of the pure and abundant negligence of the Mufur Preamble, a very sweet one, combining the molecule and the grace.»[2].

Attests to its loan function in the Kingdom of Mali and sends it to a friend in Andalus, from a poem that picks up a lane and grows on the fire of Al-Hin:

Who are the passengers, lost sand?

Walked, built charges and survived.

She leaves you, she'll settle down after them.

They stole your heartless heart.

In every valley, you're a terrible leader.

And every club, you're calling Gide. 

Oi, his counts are in peace.

I'm going, I'm sheltered, I'm sorry.

I'm afraid to say his shadow is consumed.

I'd rather, where I'd rule.

The coast, as constructed by Timbuktu al-Barez, the large university that exists today, has affected the enormity of its financial elements, spreading its way of saying poetry, inheriting it through generations, and perhaps the origin of Arabic poetry writing in West Africa is rooted in the coastal era in Timbuktu.

Although the general nature of the poetry achievement in Mali is not a classical pattern, it is mostly a tradition of old Arab poetry, today ' s generation is beginning to draw attention to new ways and to the innovation of various content reflecting a particular specificity, translating hopes, fragrances and cultural components of Africa in general and in particular from Mali.

The drunken comfort has been en routed.

My shadow rang to wake up.

Like...

The seas have a sail.

That's literally getting away with it.

The more...

Bless the meanings.

The light theater is satisfying the darkness.  

And I'm a story of her stereotyping.

Abbies to the poet Bakry Cece, from a poem entitled: «A light floating on the hull.»Demonstrates the sensitivity of contemporary enlightenments, the poet seeks his accomplishments and borrowings from the new reality, and transmits its trace to his conscience, to be issued in a poetry that respects the modern reader, as it says and with indirect vigilance: Mali is also present in the present time.

From the north of Mali, a daring song, sent on behalf of the communists and the torturers in the crude and blind trespassing war, is a quiet poet, but in the hearts it is a kin language:

Because touching when it takes before me

I take the horizon forever.

It leads to everything but...

- He's not dating.

Because I'm the last dead.

"Walk to the pastors and no hand..."

I forgot. And I didn't blow a mud.

No way to tomorrow.

Who's gonna give us the dream back?

It's getting drunk on time?

It's me back.

- By me in the end... - To the generator?

May life return to heaven.

- D or an idea yet to be born.

The poet Muhammad Khairi does not want to manufacture other than pain, as he signed a charter with the desert, where he will indulge consolations, without weakness or extortion of emotions, even though those tear poems put the young poet in the position of thirst, the world is crawling with distractions and temptations, and the way to the club calls for another rhythm! «You don't make grapes.»I'm sorry.

And here's a shining spot in the hands of Mali, an activist poem, echoed by Ibrahim Al-Fahri, as if his poems had to light a star on the horizon, saying:

I got her back.

And she waved at me.

Back to the start point.

Where I renew my experience in the ritual of torture.

But...

I'm going to be indifferent this evening.

Go ahead.

Because I'm tired of going after the drink!

For centuries, financial hair has been limited to subjects and purposes, all of which are jurist systems, opposition poems, sandwiches and seals, many of which are poems for the Naples, but in recent years, by the youth of this generation, huge leaps, flew out of a narrow tradition to the cradle of vision and experimentation, and a new philatelic image of man.

Every time a poetry evening is held in Bamako, the hall is filled with a tasting, poeming, unfilled, open and interconnected with the modern poem, the enlargement and ambiguity of its symbols and the sense of the emotional power inherent in its images and collections.

Many of Mali ' s literature critics -- such as Professor Harun Mega and Dr. Mamadou Dembeli -- are also interested in current poetry, addressed in academic studies and discussed at Malian universities -- are best evidence of the special position of Arab poets in Mali.

!

[1] Briefing in Grnata News, Sandin Ben Al-Khib, scientific bookshop, p. 170.

[2] Same source.

At one of my home ' s cultural salon sessions, two large wall-sized paintings hanging on the walls of the room of the poet Mahmoud Darwish looked at one of the attendees. «I thought you were amateur, and I didn't expect to see you in your house instead of two paintings for the one that matches with a brown butcher in poetry and doesn't cross!»I'm sorry.

I answered: «I'd like to add that there's a third painting of him in my office to complete the triple, and if the poetry of my stubborn lovers, the poems of Mahmoud Darwish, my secret garden, were filled in search of a different beauty and a poetic allergies, even though there were many replicated models.»I'm sorry.

This droychi shroud is not an emergency, its roots are at the beginning of my literary formation and I am at the beginning of college, and unlike many, I did not know Darwish ' s hair through his worms, nor from his evening records by giving him the left wizard, my gate was to his hair. «I bow to my mother's bread.» And...«Promises from the storm.» The other magnetic poems that have struck me with the advent of a generation of Bahraini youth, formerly from my generation at the university, were influenced by the idea of the left, through which we learned the committed thought of literature and art.

I recall that my first contact with the hair of Mahmoud Darwish, read indistinctly, was on the night of the mid-1980s in a friend ' s home belonging to a technical family, and that, in that evening, all of our songs were from Marcel and Majda al-Rome, this was a time of national sentiment and national thought, one of the young people present was given a couple of hairs for their praises. «My girlfriend's getting up from her sleep.» And the other. «High Shadow praise»They were the bridge I crossed from the banks of the nascent river to the droid bank, and I kept most poems. «High Shadow praise» Like a lot of guys looking at her high singing, and I ran a lot of her dads, just like the beginning of a song on the tongue we can't change.

You've stabilized this dramatic shift. I've got two consecutive years of band parties. «Bells.» The poems of Drewish were the main part of their singing program, and I kept visiting with a cafeteria of my Drewish garden, once through a controversy with a friend whose hair was shining like a nazaar wax, another via Marcel Khalifa and his poem glory, and a third through a paper with a paper from a college researcher. «Crazy dirt.»He handed me the key to getting into his hair, and I announced my lover to the hair of Mahmoud Darwish after I considered the ad to be a betrayal of my love of Nazar Qabani poetry, a day that I read a dialogue with Mahmoud Darwish on the pages of a magazine. «Journal» It depicts the page's chest. Address by line. «Who didn't benefit from a Spanish butcher, lift his finger.»I'm sorry.

My personal meeting with Sha ' ar Mahmoud Darwish was delayed only a year and a half before he left. In February 2007, the first session of the International Hebrew Forum was held in Cairo, with the name of the Grand poet Salah Abdul Sabour, the star of the meeting was Mahmoud Darwish, and I wanted to be invited to her not as a mediator, but as a poet writing her poem. «We meet with Brewen.» I also wanted to be a resident of the same hotel where Darwish was coming down.

The other day, I had two impressions that the days had made me their senses: first, Drewish had to talk about his revolutionary poems that initially made his fame, like his famous poem. «I'm an Arab.»I recall that in his recent poetic evenings, he refused to read it when the public asked for it. «Woman's poet.» And Drewish doesn't want to be deceived as well. «Revolutionary poet»And the second impression is that he was a self-esteem, and my mind was running a comparison between me and my visitor years ago in his London house. «In your absence.» My bed table goes down and he laughs and says, «Watch out. They'll give you a break.»I'm sorry.

The other day, I had two impressions that the days had made me their senses: first, Drewish had to talk about his revolutionary poems that initially made his fame, like his famous poem. «I'm an Arab.»I recall that in his recent poetic evenings, he refused to read it when the public asked for it. «Woman's poet.» And Drewish doesn't want to be deceived as well. «Revolutionary poet»And the second impression is that he was a self-esteem, and my mind was running a comparison between me and my visitor years ago in his London house. «In your absence.» My bed table goes down and he laughs and says, «Watch out. They'll give you a break.»I'm sorry.

At that meeting, Mahmoud Darwish was scared of being alone, and he was telling us how he was blocking his door without being locked in the key. His friend's death was present in his mind the day he was scheduled to gather them a poetry evening with a ceremonial monstrous in London, and a politico had a heart attack after which he died in the hotel room, and his death was discovered only a day later because he was wearing a sign. «Please don't bother.» On his door.

After this time, Mahmoud Darwish died in Houston, America, on 9 August 2008, following his open-heart operation.

The Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish left 17 years, yet his voice remains high. «In your absence.»Young people carry their poems, musicians inspire their hair, not the only tribes in it, and his poem alone still has the components of the magical stroke between the mass spread and the appreciation of the educated elite, without the slightest technical compromise. «The audience needs it.»And not in the mental schizophrenia wrapped in the nausea to which I often slipped the modern poem, it's enough that when we read Darwish's hair, we actually make sure that on this earth what is worth living...