hello, my name is Iqbal alSharif, I'm Arabic instructor to non native speakers i have a certificate from Jordan university in Methods of Teaching Arabic to non native speakers and another certificate from Istanbul Institute of Languages. I am a Native Arabic speaker and speak English too, with experience in teaching students from all around the world. My teaching experience have allowed me to learn so much about different cultures. My students come from Turkey, China, USA, Macedonia, Pakistan, Australia and France. Together, we can practice : · Conversational Speech and Pronunciation · listening · Reading · Writing i use zoom meeting program to teaching Arabic. I am in Jordan standard time +3 UTC. I am very flexible with my time, so please send me a message with your available date and time and the country where you are currently living. Also, please tell me what you will like to practice and I will have
The exiles don't look back
The exiles don't look back when leaving
one place of exile - for more exile
lies ahead, they've become familiar
with the circular road, nothing to the front
or to the rear, no north or south.
They emigrate from the fence to the garden,
leaving behind a will with each step across the yard
of the house:
'After we're gone, remember only this life.'
They travel from the soft silk of morning to midday dust,
bearing a coffin filled with artifacts of absence:
an identity card and a letter to one beloved, address unknown:
'After we're gone, remember only this life.'
With a wounded gesture of victory
they journey from the house to the street,
telling those who see them:
'We're still alive, so remove us from memory.'
They emerge from their story to breathe and to bask
in the sun, think of flying higher…
and higher. They rise and fall. They come and go.
They jump from an ancient ceramic tile to a star.
And they come back to a story…
there's no end to the beginning.
They flee from somnolence to an angel of sleep,
pale and red-eyed from thinking of the blood
that's been shed:
'After we're gone, remember only this life…'
The exiles don't look back when leaving
one place of exile - for more exile
lies ahead, they've become familiar
with the circular road, nothing to the front
or to the rear, no north or south.
They emigrate from the fence to the garden,
leaving behind a will with each step across the yard
of the house:
'After we're gone, remember only this life.'
They travel from the soft silk of morning to midday dust,
bearing a coffin filled with artifacts of absence:
an identity card and a letter to one beloved, address unknown:
'After we're gone, remember only this life.'
With a wounded gesture of victory
they journey from the house to the street,
telling those who see them:
'We're still alive, so remove us from memory.'
They emerge from their story to breathe and to bask
in the sun, think of flying higher…
and higher. They rise and fall. They come and go.
They jump from an ancient ceramic tile to a star.
And they come back to a story…
there's no end to the beginning.
They flee from somnolence to an angel of sleep,
pale and red-eyed from thinking of the blood
that's been shed:
'After we're gone, remember only this life…'