THE BIRD Is Voice of Love and Peace

Wednesday, September 30, 2015

Fork, Knife and Pen

Short story
 Written by: Ali Taha Alnobani
The open buffet at the five stars hotel has delicious types of food: more than twenty kinds of salad, followed by various types of foreign food, the name of each is written in English on a small card in front of it, and then you pass by a long table of fruits and sweets. I chose my meal and sat on one of the tables
According to the Protocol, I always smile to every person if my eyes meet his eyes, whether he is a colleague in the Conference or one of the restaurant workers who were walking around wearing  the hotel uniform. I began eating: soup in the beginning, then salad… I do not know why I remembered that child who sells cheap kind of pens near the traffic light, which lies between the Raouche and Hamra, the bite stopped in my mouth; I felt that I need  something to push it in my throat.
There is no doubt that the child dreams of returning to his brothers carrying  food, Maybe it's sandwiches, or bread and tea, and perhaps he will pay house rent and have food from here or there.
The weather was extremely hot, and the sun's rays were like molten lead because of the intense humidity, and the child jumps on his mangled shoes from a car window to another offering  pens.
Then, what do people write with pens?
Some people write a business deal where they sell or buy the dreams of thousands of children, some people write poems to beautify the ugliness of this world, and some do not read, write, or even think.
I pushed the salad to my throat.  Then my  battle with a steak with  a knife and a fork started , it had a neutral taste: Not salty nor light, not sweet nor bitter, just like our world in which children age while selling pens at traffic lights, and at the same time they pay from their life the tax of what is written with pens.
Beirut 4/9/2015

Friday, July 24, 2015

Horrible love

Written by: Ali Taha Alnobani

© 2015 by THE BIRD(

My beautiful friend who I lost in the mysterious oak forest
Comes every day like a beautiful scary dream
Her face is like the face of the Lord
But her voice is like voice of devil
I tried to kiss her, but her voice blew my fragile joints
My desire was roused to sing in the valleys of madness
With too high sound touches all hungry children in this despicable world
I want to live happy
But I also want children to rejoice
To embrace life
Who changed my sweetheart voice?
Who closed the way of hope?
I know, I will not restore my dream

Thursday, July 2, 2015


                                Written by: Ali Taha Alnobani
To the marvelous Karine
I will not divide my dream into small parts to keep you here near my heart
You will always stay like a sun enlarging my vision of love
I will not respond to villains who spoiled the world
Because I read this call deeply in your eyes
Without you
How to live
And how to love
One day, when I was near the high waves of the sea
An angel came through the dusk and told me
That I can have everything there
In the world of love
Just send my voice to you
Through a childish song
Hands outstretched towards me will find its destination
When dead people's spirits wish to come back here

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Selfish World

Written by: Ali Taha Alnobani

© 2015 by THE BIRD(

Far away, behind sea
There is an island called
"Sad spirits island"
There you can hear crying spreads all over the world
Children without horizon
Ships without captain
Sea without gulls
There you can find friends
Who give you hope and peace
No matter, if they lost their dreams
No matter, if they became a screw in the big machine of miserable world
And now without this journey
You can see the harvest of words
Nobody will give you more than words
So, build your home of lie promises
Fill your stomach of nice verses
And meditate at the sky to find your share in the selfish world

Saturday, April 18, 2015

A weapon is not a gun

Written by: Ali Taha Alnobani
 © 2014 by THE BIRD(

A weapon is not a gun
Not a sword
It is the word that remains after blood and criminals die
 even if their ghosts stay
When I become surrounded by fire from all sides
How do I express my feeling
I know that the trees see me
I know that the dream is far away, but I sing in spite of everything
Happiness is my tune before the emergence of criminals
Even if my soul leaves my body
I will not go away
I will stay in the fog of the story
Always live my dream
A weapon is not a gun
Not a sword
It is the word that remains after blood and criminals die
 even if their ghosts stay