Habib Fares Poems

Your mum,
How many
Silver statues
She slept with,
...

When a word sprouts
In my paper,
Death breathes
Inside me,
...

I beg your pardon my beautiful butterfly for the explosions of some of my wandering spirit within its swarthy gloominess incarceration.

Do not ask why my wounds choose you in their balsamic journeys. For I have no authority over their options.
...