SUDAN BOOKSHOP: REVALUTION

It is howling storm and gale that day and night of struggle of sacrifice will continue to blow its strong wind of freedom and equality till all the yellow trees of dictatorship at that land that extends from ocean to bay and from bay to ocean are uprooted and eliminated. out of that red ink of blood that has been written to all by that brave Tunisian youth of struggle of sacrifice that all of the time of fine revolutionary eye of sharp sight of democracy and freedom in bliss and joy of all children innocence does paint and draw true history for his own nation of one Arab World that day and night of addition of beatification does look for that beam of light of truth of beauty out of those two eyes of day and night into the innocent eyes of that brave Tunisian youth of red ink for all the children upon all this world of sun and moon of truth of beauty to paint and draw that fine white bird of democracy with freedom.
Dr. Hamza.M.Alhassan
[email protected]

Iron Hand
How can all the doors
Of that fine revolutionary eye
Of freedom and justice
Be widely opened at
That burnt red land
Of the Arab World
While all of the time
Of corruption of nepotism
With mercenaries and cannons
Of fire and shoot
They protect their own seat
Of chair of rule
For their own family
Of sons and daughters
To come and rule
Out of that iron hand
Of injustice with corruption
Through that stolen time
Of no democracy of human rights
That day and night
Of howling gale of storm
High yell and cry
Out of its throttled voice
Of true real life
Who at that burnt land?
Of the Arab World
Going in bliss of joy
Of bravery of sacrifice
To paint and draw
My own fine light
Of true real life
Upon foreheads and eyes
Of all the people
Of that burnt land
Out of that unjust seat
Of powerful iron hand

Howling Storm

It is a howling storm
Of powerful thundering gale
That day and night
Of struggle of sacrifice
Does sing and warble
In bliss and joy
Of win of victory
For that bright light
Of true real humanity
To illuminate and blight
Through all of the time
Of bard of poet
That fine good land
From ocean to bay
And from bay to ocean
Out of its sky
And fine beautiful horizon
Of freedom of democracy
With dignity of social justice
That day and night
Of flowers and thorns
Does high yell and cry
Out of its own voice
Of true real life
Who at that land
Of beclouded sun and moon
Of truth of beauty
Has made my own voice
Of that bright dawn
Too low and dumb.

White Dove
I am a howling gale and storm
Through day and night
Of protest of revolutionary eye
Will become and be
Bewitching fine soft breeze
Above that lush tree
Of democracy of flight
With human rights of free
Where that white dove
In bliss and joy
Of victory of win
Does high soar and fly
Out of its own singing
Of peace and love
With love and unity
For those two eyes
Of day and night
To bright glitter and rise
Through no stolen time
Of democracy of human rights
Out of its own light
Of truth of beauty.

Heavy Rain
From Egypt to Tunisia
And from Tunisia to Bahrain
Let my own clouds
Of thunder of storm
Through that smiling time
Of fine revolutionary eyes
Drop their heavy rain
Of flood of drowning
Over every dictator of Pharaoh
That through day or night
Of no sun and moon
Of truth of beauty
That chair and seat
Of govern of rule
Has been robbed and stolen
Out of military boot
Of officers and soldiers
With that royal family
Of king and queen
Who has nothing to add
Out of their own left
And dishonest red right
Of powerful iron fist
To those two eyes
Of day and night
Of true real life
For all on all miles
Of four leading eyes
That high yells and cries
Out of that voice
Of truth of beauty
What is my own sin
At this fleeting sun-rise
Of tour of life
To become and be
Most of the time
Of thistles of sharp thorns
Beneath that unjust seat
Of govern of rule
That would soon be
Drowned out of those
Dark revolutionary clouds of
Of heavy rain of flood
That all of the time
Of flowers of roses
Out of that sun
And fine beautiful moon
Will paint and draw
At this fleeting sun-rise
Of addition of beautification
That garden of paradise
Of those two eyes
Of day and night
of convert
In the right direction5: Wounded Cities
Oh that white dove
Narrate to all of us
About deeply wounded cities
And areas of capitals
At that burnt land
Of the Arab World
Out of your own voice
Of freedom of flight
With peace of unity
Of love with oneness
How can our own
Howling gales of storms
Of fine revolutionary eyes
At this fleeting sun-rise
Of tour of life
Blow their strong winds
Of new political era
Of change
While that giant-land
Out of its White House
And capital of Washington
Through all of the time
Of selfishness of utility
Does look and eye
At our revolutionary eyes
Of howling gales of storms
Out of that one eye
Of power of interest
Where our own land
Of wealthy rich under-ground
Is a mere barrel of oil
That at any time
Can explode and boil
Out of that one eye
Of that giant0land.

Silly Shoes
Let all the people
Upon that burnt land
Of the Arab World
Out of that unjust seat
Of govern of rule
Receive with loud shouts
Of bliss of joy
Those dark revolutionary clouds
Of heavy lush rains
Of thunder of storm
Out of that revolutionary eye
That in a brief time
Of struggle of sacrifice
Will soon reach and arrive
Its high water mark
Of flood of drowning
For all those toys
Of unjust presidents of rulers
At that burnt land
Of the Arab World
That day and night
Of revolt of rebellion
Does high yell and cry
Out of its own voice
Of freedom of flight
What is my own sin
Upon all these miles
Of four leading eyes
To be governed and ruled
Through all of the time
Of darkness of ignorance
Out of silly shoes
Of military men and guys
And too those amusing toys
Of kings and queens.

Unjust Seat
Between that iron hand
Of unjust chair and seat
Of govern and rule
How can those two eyes
Of day and night
Bright glitter and rise
At that burnt land
Of the Arab World
Out of its own light
Of truth of beauty
Except out of that
Howling gale and storm
Of thundering revolutionary eye
Where its sharp sight
At that burnt land
Of the Arab World
Is you and I
Of woman and man
With girl and child
That has been drowned
For a very long time
Of thistles and thorns
Beneath that iron hand
Of darkness of ignorance
Where that sun and moon
Of true real life
Cant glitter and shine
Out of its own light
Of truth of beauty.

Weak Sight
Oh those howling storms
Narrate out of black dot
Of sorrow of regret
To most political parties
At that burnt land
Of the Arab World
Out of your own
Fine thundering strong winds
Of human revolutionary eyes
What is the role
Of most of them
In those revolutionary eyes
Eyes of weak political sight
They cant become and be
Throughout that howling time
Of struggle of sacrifice
The pump of heat
Of pulse of beat
For all of the masses
Of the ordinary people
At that burnt land
Of the Arab World.

Hollow Eyes
It is howling storm
That day and night
Of thundering revolutionary eye
Does narrate to tell
Out of its historical wind
Of struggle of sacrifice
About the role of most
Of the Arabic political parties
While most of the time
Of that revolutionary gale
They stand as by-standers
Of very weak sight
Of hollow political ideas
About preset and future
Of their own homes
Of dark bitter winter.

THEY
As they become and be
Old out of passing time
Of years of age
What can their ruling brains
Of heavy military boots
With those royal crowns
Of hat or scarf
Add to that book
Of fine divine page
Of tour of life
While all of the time
Of no sun and moon
Of truth of beauty
They erect that iron cage
Of imprisonment of slavery
For most of the people
Of that burnt land
Of the Arab World
That day and night
Of howling gale of storm
Does high jell and cry
Out of its own voice
Of dignity of loftiness
What at this sun-rise
Of addition of beautification
Going to crush and
Break that iron cage
Of decay of damage
Of that light of life
That day and night
Of thistles of thorns
Its doors of gates
Are guarded and watched
By very coward eyes
Of intelligent men and woman
Of no sun and moon
Of truth of beauty

Pen
All of the time
Of our own chairs
And fine ruling seats
Remain silent and dumb
For our own kingdoms
Whether at Emirates or Saudi Arabia
With Morocco and Bahrain
To progress and flourish
Out of their own
Clouds of heavy rain
Of riches of wealth
For most of you
In satiety of satisfaction
To drink and eat
Far and away from
Our own sons' palaces
At those European capitals
Of Paris with London
That all of the time
Out of that light
Of progress of science
Joyfully pen and write
To paint and draw
Out of their own hands
Of power of interest
That this fine sun-rise
Of tour of life
Is not a mere pen
Of eat of consumption
That can make of man
And guy wild beast
As quick and fast
He does sail and flow
From east down to west
Of dumb real nest.

Spring
Oh that smooth mirror
Narrate out of your own
Bright shine of glisten
Of truth of light
Who upon all these miles
Of four leading ryes
Can stand against the
Soul and the will
Of all of the people
Whose spring and fount
Is from the above
For that white dove
Of peace of love
With love of unity
In bliss and joy
Of valuable human rights
Of democracy of flight
With equality of social justice
To high soar and fly
Upon all these miles
Of east and west
With north and south

Black Dot
Let you and I
Of woman and man
With girl and child
Upon that burnt land
Of the Arab World
Out of that black dot]
Of sorrow of mourn
Stand one-minute silence
For the innocent souls
Of all our brave martyrs
That out of their own
Flesh of blood-shed
Oh bravery of sacrifice
Would crush and break
For all of us
That barrier of fear
Upon that burnt land
Of the Arab World
For those republics and
States of iron fist
To be deeply drowned
Ito that boiling blood
Of all our brave
Martyrs of men and women.

The Match
Whether here or there
No-body will again hear
Your own lush Libyan voice
Of world-wide theory
Out of that revolutionary fire
Of idle Tunisian youth
Who here or there
Has been the match
For all revolutionary storms
Upon that burnt land
Of the Arab World
That day and night
Of that sun and moon
Of truth of beauty
Does utter and say
Out of its own voice
Of struggle of sacrifice
Who at this sun-rise
Of tour of life
Going to put out that fire
Of true real life.

Innocent Mother
What lessons are they
Going to learn from
My own revolutionary fire
At my green land
Of Tunisia of kind
Mother of beloved country
That all of the time
Will cry and weep
For who can believe
That a kind mild mother
Of country of home
May kill its own sons
And daughters of bright future
Over that human sky
Of development of progress
That day and night
Of democracy of flight
Will high yell and cry
Out of its bright dawn
Of true real life
What is the sin
Of that Tunisian youth
Of hero and champion.