Méditations d’Aphrodite

كيف أُلغي النَّجمة؟ ما أحبّ اللَّون الأصفر

The Birth of Venus (c.1888). By Adolf Hirémy-Hirsch.

Sleep, my Aphrodite, beneath the silver moon, While roses close their petals and the sea sings you a tune. Let the stars kiss your eyelids, let the night caress your hair, And may every dream that finds you be as tender as a prayer. Lay your golden head to rest, beloved daughter of the sea, Let the waves cradle your sorrows and the winds set your heart free. For even goddesses grow weary beneath the weight of being fair; Even beauty longs for silence, for a heart that knows no care. Oh, my goddess, soft and lovely, born where foam and heavens meet, May the night lay down its roses at the resting of your feet. And when dawn unveils the heavens, when the first light touches blue, May the world be born more beautiful for having dreamed of you. – My Lullaby to Aphrodite.

And since some are asking, I delete what I publish because sometimes thoughts come to me as fleeting ideas that do not need to be preserved here in my channel.

عجيبة هذه القصيدة، باذخة الجمال.

ربما لم يُجسّد أيّ شعرٍ تلك الرهبة في أعماقي كما جسّده الشعر العربي، إنه يتسامى ويتجاوز القدرةَ البشرية، مسٌّ من الجنون، أو كما قالت إميلي ديكنسون "إذا شعرت ببدني وكأنَّ قمة رأسي قد خُلِعت، أدركُ حينها أن هذا هو الشعر." https://www.aldiwan.net/poem6040.html

Painting and poetry are two languages of the same human longing: the desire to give form to what would otherwise remain unseen. A painter gathers light, colour, and silence upon a canvas; a poet gathers words, rhythms, and silences upon a page. Both attempt to capture something that resists being captured entirely—a fleeting impression, an elusive feeling, a moment of beauty that might otherwise disappear without a trace.

الترجمة تعود إلى هذهِ القناة.

نعم غالبًا أحب الأغاني النادرة، هسة مثلًا ليندا هاينز محد يسمع أغانيها بس أنا وزوجها

تسمعين اغاني محد يعرفها

It is rather amusing that a grown adult would take social media seriously!

"as is painting, so is poetry."

Roses (1890) By Abbott Handerson Thayer.

When you fall in love, at first you take your lover for a work of art; her visage a painting, her voice a melody, her quirks a curiosity. Then you meditate longer and gaze deeper into the art, and the brushstrokes, cracks, and faulty details start to show themselves and catch your attention, and maybe distress. But if you're still in love, even the cracks and paint flakes will look like craquelure and Persian mistakes to you—signatures of authenticity and beauty. You may have noticed this in yourself: you fall in love with an olive-skinned brunette, and suddenly Venus herself has brown hair and a tanned complexion; you're enamored with a blue-eyed freckled girl, and freckles become the epitome of beauty.

And never hesitate to recommend a film at any time

Soviet film acting feels more like a theatrical performance than cinematic acting, and I love how it feels like literature rather than just acting.