The Song of Life
An Ongoing Poem
Sabri Yousef
Translated by
Salmaan Kureemun
Edited by
Faiza Sultan

Copyright © 2015 by Darsafi, LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed,
or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying,
recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior
written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted
by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed
“Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
www.darsafi.com
16301 NE 8th St.
Suite #220
Bellevue, WA 98008
info@darsafi.com
This book is translated by Salmaan Kureemun
Art by Sabri Yousef
Edited by Faiza Sultan
Translation4all, Inc
www.translation4all.com
info@translation4all.com
253-630-5234
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-1-49514519-3

Dedication:
• To my father, Samuel Yousef, also known as Samo Shlo.
• To my mother Saideh Issa Al-Radeef.
• To Derik, my birthplace, nestled in the far northeast of the
wings of yearning!
• To my beloved Stockholm, which welcomed me with open
arms in utmost love and respect.
• To Sweden, the land of peace and freedom, whence I wrote
this book and many others.
• To all the artistic men and women whose hearts yearn for
peace in the world.
• And to all who strive for peace in all four corners of the
earth, I dedicate “The Song of Life.”
Sabri Yousef - Stockholm

The Song of Life

Sabri Yousef
A Word from the Author
We pass on, and our writings remain etched on the wall of time as the song
of life.
Poetry is the friend of my far-flung exile, a blaze emanating from the freshness
of the soul, a tranquil lake of love and affection throughout the days, months
and years; garlands of flowers on the domes of a dream. Poetry alone is able
to swim through the mist, the storms, the pleasant breeze. Poetry is the friend
of the nightingales and the wild flowers; the friend of a female lover made of
light, emanating from the azure of the sky. Poetry and the basil of love are
twins. Poetry precedes language. It’s a friend smelted with the hidden secrets
of language, and it will stay long after language is gone, because it springs
from the fertility of life. It’s the very essence of life!
The poet grants to life the nectar of his life, desiring to adorn the face of
forenoon with jasmine. He is always attempting to wash the tribulations of
childhood with the tears of poems sprinkling from the hips of the sky. He wipes
away the sorrows of adults, traversing through the recesses of griefs in order
to gather up the moans pouring out of the vexation of the days and scatter
them into the folds of the wind. He wields his inkwell in defiance against the
crookednesses of the era, attempting to redraw a smile on the cheek of the
night. He is in perpetual struggle with his self that is set ablaze by the tyrants
of this world. Poetry alone grants the ecstasy of the birthing of poems, soaring
loftily like a strong-winged eagle, fluttering in the dome of the sky, embracing
a star glittering in the color of joy!
Poetry is a portal of fertility, lush with the most splendid of spring greenery; a
hymn of love sung by Fayrouz, a rhythm crossing paths with the joy of nature
and the songs of nightingales at the peak of spring. Poetry is a refreshing
dream opened onto the branches of the female lover, a mist fragrant with
incense, a candle smelted from the quintessence of wild honey, illuminating
the purgatory of the soul. Poetry is the movement of a sparrow hawk flying
above the thickets of stars, the prayer of an ascetic in a cave overflowing
with vigor, an eternal thirst that never quenches the heart. Poetry invigorates
a female lover’s desire for quenching the thirst of yearning for the pleasure
of soaring, a state of anxiety splintering from the downpours of rain, falling
from the eyes of the clouds onto the delight of the place, the worries of a rose
perfumed with a fine drizzle, wanting to bless the fertility of the earth!

The Song of Life
Poetry is the friend of ballet dancers, and the basil of the music of the sea
emanating from the whispers of creatures burning with desire to the rhythm
of the dandling of love! Poetry is a language indexed with the sweetness of
the sky, with the aroma of mint sprinkled around the dome of love, a state
of reinvigoration towards the heavens, in order to embrace the purity of the
fragrance of the night. Poetry is the scream of a rose tucked in the fangs of
wild beasts, wishing for deliverance from the harshness of the winds! The
adventure of a lover diving into the depths of the seas, in order to pick up a
female lover in the color of pearls. Poetry is the companion of my solitude, a
state of ecstasy in a world of vexation! Poetry is an innocent being, because
it is born from the expanses of childhood; it’s the friend of the creatures, all
creatures. It is intertwined with the threads of life so as to grant the heart the
fertility of life; a gleam of joy on the dome of melancholies; a pond pouring
down from the cheeks of the sun, the friend of my soul gushing forth onto
the branches of the morning; the nectar of birth; a green forest landing like
a breeze on the shoulders of childhood. Poetry is an oasis welcoming the
moans of the stricken heart, in order to soothe the wounds of night and day.
Poetry embraces the vigor of the mind and the soul, and the delight of ecstasy!
Poetry is the twin of the soul, an ember burning in the gardens of dreams in order
to illuminate the delight of a lifetime to the tunes of the greenery of the song of life!
For decades, I’ve been immersed in the writing of a text that is opened onto
the space of memories whose paths intersect with the exile of man from his
fellow humans in this stupid era. It’s a text pouring out of the hip of the soul!
Our dreams are shattered from the harshness of the deluge pouring onto the
domes of the heart from all sides. Poetry is our vast haven, a safe cavern out
of the reach of the scepters of this era, an oasis crowned with dew that instills
in our innermost selves the song of life. Poetry soothes our deep wounds.
It’s our affectionate friend; it’s a forest filled with wild narcissus. Poetry is the
shrapnel of wisdom from the tail of a meteor falling onto the face of night; a
pond pouring down from the nectar of the clouds, a rain gushing forth from
the womb of the sky, the kiss of a sun on an early morning. Poetry is drizzles
of pure gold dust, waves drawn on the smile of childhood, a journey of joy on
the shoulders of the evening!
A century or more in the future, there will come a time when poets will lead
this world. The politics of the world have failed, and so have the leaders of the
world in their leadership of the universe. Poetry will restore the parameters
of this world to the right path, to the vastness of the harbors of peace. Poetry

Sabri Yousef
is the friend of seagulls and the seas, the friend of the earth and the sky, the
friend of the wounded soul, a cold water that quenches thirsty hearts, a portal
of joy opened onto the pastures of paradise, from whose wings the blaze of
love flies away; a childhood girdled with roses blooming around the plains of
the heart.
Poetry is the sustenance of the soul, eradicating drought and wiping out the
dry expanses of the body. Poetry is a journey of an embrace with wild grass,
a precious pearl on the sea floor, which the poet picks up with the frequencies
of his soul in order to offer it to a female lover made of light! Poetry is the smile
of a soul flying out of a moist breeze, a smile overflowing with sweetness, a
refreshing smile like the songs of nightingales, a smile draped in the tears
of children as they hug their mothers before falling asleep in the arms of the
morning’s kiss. Sometimes, we flee from our own selves, but our selves that
are indexed in the fountains of poetry chase after us wherever we go, tickling
the shores of clear and pure springs, arousing the basil of poetry, and so we
pen with excitement what is dictated to us by the soul’s fertility.
I write my poetry for humanity, all of humanity, so that it may embrace a person
wherever they are, as a wish of mine to sprinkle on their wings, heart, soul
and imagination the basil of joy, love and peace. We are a passing breeze on
the face of the earth, and we pass on, and our writings remain etched on the
wall of time as the song of life.

Sabri Yousef
Stockholm