Works

My roots run deep
In rich, anchored soil,
Tangled with stories and memories.
They plunge into the past,
Weave through generations that came before me
And nourish the present I live in.

They carry within them
The strength of my ancestors —
Their traditions, their hopes and their struggles.
They are made of the voices of my elders,
Of their fireside tales,
Of their hands that cultivated, protected, built.
They are steeped in the landscapes
That watched my family grow,
The scents that perfume the nights,
The songs that ring out as melodies.

My roots run deep
But they do not hold me prisoner.
They give my steps their strength,
The steadiness I carry within,
So I may explore other places
Without ever losing myself out there…

For wherever I go, I carry with me
This earth, these memories, these ways.
And even if the wind of life
Drives me far from here,
I know my buried roots
Will stay in that precise place —
Reminding me always
Where I come from —
Who I am.

Time lost
So much regained —
Impossible to pierce
Where it began.
Its origin
Its roots
Its identity…
One moment it is dark,
The next aglow —
But so often
it has slipped away too fast.

We walk lightly on paths of shadow,
Drawn despite ourselves by an echo of dusk,
A nameless thread that binds and sinks us,
Captive of an imprint with countless contours.

Tied to the earth as to the breath of the wind,
We carry the imprint no one feels,
A relic of yesterday, an ever-present whisper,
Etched beneath the skin, a marking silence.

It guides our steps without ever showing itself,
An ineffable trace beneath our leaning souls,
Like a root hidden under the bark,
Invisible force in entwined chains.

Caught by the pull of the first clay,
We seek forgetfulness in shadow and stone —
But the imprint remains, subtle and whole,
Marking our souls with a seal of light.

To be able to fly away
For the length of an image
Above the clouds
Above ideas
To erase thoughts ;
For an instant
To soar above time.

Beneath the spreading shadow,
The canvas waits.
A drop sets off.
It is gravity that paints and dances.
It glides, quivering,
Stretches into rivers,
Traces lightning,
Bursts into shards.
Each pearl splashes,
Draws layers
Of a liquid dream
In shades of lilac.
It paints without a brush,
Without sound or chaos.
It sculpts and shapes,
It needs no one
To reveal
The secret
The universe hums to it —
It creates without end
A poem of satin.

We run in circles,
drunk on flight without flight,
longing for elsewhere,
without ever leaving here.

The thread stretches taut,
swaying under the pull
of invisible forces.

The words written by time ;
No time
While the present moment
Rests
In pause.

We set down a future compromise
We never promised.
The words of the wounds we live,
The wounds we feel,
Words written in blood
With no way out !

But we find our way out ;
A fate of endless life
That never finishes
Ever
But never stops turning
From one to the next —
A leap toward some,
To save the others.

The shadow that knows keeps watch, a guardian abandoned.
Intense trance of being and appearing, torn between shadow and dream,
echoes of our becoming resistance, hesitating between being and not — the light.

In the waiting where everything unwinds,
The shadow that knows whispers and passes.

Are we made and unmade ?
Steeped in reflections ?
Are we only a reflection
Without affirmation ?
Time embraces and folds,
Pierces with the tip of its abolished minutes.
A space that passes
Over a surface, then dies.
Breaks become fissures
So that everything reassures us
For the space of a frame.
Transparencies in trance
Of intense revelations.

Rays in transparency —
A dance of decadence.
We hear without speaking
The words colliding.
We try to gather
Our thoughts gone aloft,
Like those few sparrows still here
Who repeat without end ;
Our extreme feelings
To forget ourselves anyway.

The deeper the silence,
the louder the noise.

In each of us a cry resounds
Tied to the pain of a wounded land.
It is identity —
It is existence —
It is far more than belonging.
It is the shocks she has borne and her suffering.
She is born in you,
And in her you come to life.

— Randa Ali Ahmad

When life is a branch, each day is an exchange.
When life is an exchange, each day is a difference.
When life is a difference, each day is a nuance.
When life is a nuance, each day is iridescent.
When life is iridescent, each day is a reflection.
When life is a reflection, each day is an image.
When life is an image, each day is a journey.
When life is a journey, each day is a passage.
When life is a passage, each day is a path.
When life is a path, each day leads far.

— Randa Ali Ahmad

To rust : to deteriorate, corrode, gnaw, lose suppleness, lose one's capacities.
To make rusty : to oxidize.
Rusted state : an unhealthy state.

And such is the state of things. The cracks and corrosions around us, in every corner, recall the ephemeral debris of catastrophes piled high.

Anxiety has become habitual, ordinary, in our world. How can it be understood ? How can it be justified ? How to make it comprehensible ? Acceptable ? How to join one part to another while allowing their relative movement ?

Our world is made of many filtered layers ; and these filters reflect and reveal the multiple faces of our current state. All of this manifests in our acts, in our way of seeing, of listening, of communicating — through images, objects, movements… Our physical and visual manifestation.

Live the instant, savor the moment
Or else time will take us
And we are rusted instantly.
It is the present moment —
Which counts essentially
In order to live intensely.

— Randa Ali Ahmad

Life is but a breath
An ephemeral breath.
When the breath is good,
Life is light
And things grow gentle…
And they will dazzle you
To intoxicate without reason.

The sun, the stars around you,
The sky and its brightness.
The air, the sea
And the greening of the earth…
Immortality, you see,
Is only a dream, a fancy…

And it is near the water and the flowers
That I best understood life.

— Randa Ali Ahmad

To rise vertically…
Would be ideal…
But why climb,
Climb, always climb ?
Why not…
Do what others
Do not allow themselves ?
Why not live a moment on the landing…
Take time, and forget it…
Sit down and let them go by…
Let all those people pass, too busy
Shoving each other, climbing
The thousand stairs.

Walk with the wind, with the earth, walk…
On a wooded ground…
With a joy of living and an indescribable freedom…

Then I will go down those stairs
And I will open the great door…
And with the wind I will play —
For I have the choice
That others do not have…
Because I am not afraid
Of breaking from the mold and the laws…

Thinking differently — is it senseless ?
I have all the time to climb…
In any case I do not have the key…

… Walking on foot…
Those sensations rediscovered…
To be in full nature…
And walk,
Walk, hard…
Just for the pleasure of being able to stop…
And then the halt…
Stillness rediscovered…
The tension (of effort) suddenly released
… like an unbent bow…
Savoring this nature…
Breathing in the pure air…

— Randa Ali Ahmad

Every day we are faced
With very hard realities…
Now everything has changed…
Values in people…
No longer make any sense —
Whether through rebellion,
Through revolt…
To reach a better rank or status
We push and push…
The route doesn't matter…
We leap over every trial…
The essential is to arrive…
We set everything aside…
The principles of conduct
And shared judgment…
Within our society…
Moral values…
Of right and wrong…
Pass, pass…
Everyone, in order to arrive…
The rest becomes trivial…
Fate or chance ?

A strange effect — the scent of jasmine plunges us into a world of bliss. A living world where jasmine is part of everything, giving us a sense of lightness as if we were walking on air. A world where there is no longer any separation between us and the flowers. These flowers become us, and we become these flowers. A world where time stops, where there is no longer past, future, or present… And where there are no longer any words.

Words limit, compare, and separate. Words cannot describe this state of ecstasy.