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‫كتابات أبو الحق‬

‫رابع من مايس‬
2009

‫ عازف الكلرينيت التركي‬,‫سنو‬


ْ ‫ح‬
ُ

Husnu…
The Turkish Clarinetist
There is no use reading this one unless you have an access to
this track of Husnu's .It is hard to locate the title of it while the
track are only numbered to me , but it is the only live track
within his albums, sort of a night club audience applauding to it.

This is not just a musical theme, in fact , it is the puree of a


wounded heart ,full of anguish , regardless of whose blade had
been the one to stab and cut . The whole wound is Turkish ,
same as the players identity, but the blood that it managed to
shed had a universal pattern , borrowing all alphabets of the
world . It would have flown all the way across the world , not
requiring any ticket, if it were one of Kenny G's hits since he is
a famous American artist . Listen to the tunes of the clarinet that
appear to be escalating sky high , as if a plant surrounded by a
thousand rivaling plants, reaching up to beat them and grab its
share of sunlight, as if addressing them that it is the best, and
deserves life in the first place, more than they do .
If it were only for his title to have fancy neon lights and shiny
signs like else , it would have grant him the applause of theatres
and music halls, tickets sold out too, may be . It all is because
they do not figure out for real, who is Husnu ,the Turkish
clarinet. How I wish to god that I were attending this concert of
yours, I would have shaken hands with you, and asked you to
play it once more , over and over again. I would have told you
of an Arabic poem that goes this way "Heal me with what had
been the real illness of mine ". Our bitter memories, and our
lives that are far shorter than just being short, these two ones for
sure, as well as others, many many more, and the soul that has
abandoned the body within one great leap, but the body is
writhing still , as if a wounded deer, what is it that is nourishing
its muscles in absence of that soul, I wonder? With colors of the
iris having gone astray?
Play it for me, me in particular, and set my tears free, far more
than the existing ones, a stranger whose memory had
squandered all features of its own, to further get lost more and
more…a stranger whose alphabet has finally got alienated to all
around him, to the extent of making him stick to talking to
himself, a stranger seeking oblivion within your "talking" blows,
in a time where all the world around him has become a
homeland to him, but we all know it damn well, that all God's
wealth lie within the real homeland of ours ,that one which had
been made to be a No Man's Land.

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