Post by Emad Fouad on Jul 26, 2007 18:30:46 GMT -5
I, the knife, moaning under my hands as it slaughters memory
I was there…
in the infinite distance
between the gaze of the old woman
and the photo album
between the wings of the birds
and the door of the cage
in the fragile vacuum
between the lips of the musician
and the opening of his reed flute.
In the dividing line between the bent head of the military man
and his neatly organized medals behind the glass pane
between the keen gaze of the ugly
and the stride of the beautiful
between the tear of the lonely
and the light of the candles
between the sound of the female singer as she calls out in the emptiness
and the loudspeaker that is out of order
between the heart of the mother
and the footsteps of her son in the battlefield.
I was all there
between the cane of the old
and the stones of the road
between the voice of the speaker
and the ear of the deaf
between the salty sweat of the labourer
and the salt in his bread.
I was there
in the furtive gaze of the lover
the gentle gaze of the orphan
the hug of the mother
the lips of the judge
the innocent heart
between the garment of the absent one
and the chest of the widow
between the breasts of the young girl
and the wilted flower in a book
I was the distance
between the finger of loneliness
and the erect clitoris.
I
the awkward hand
waving good bye the shiver of the lips as the eye is about to cry
the thirtieth cigarette
you alone
the blindness that autumn day
when you did not see the blossoming flower beneath your feet
I, the sadness of the reed lute that plays lovingly at her memory
the old woman goes up the stairs grasping like a child the banisters of the house.
I am the birds that flee the burning forest
before darkness descends
I am the shadow chased by the sun
the mirror in a beautiful hand as age narrows behind her like a road
I am the knife that moans under my hand as it slaughters memory
I, the memory
you fight to retrieve or delete.
I am the exposer
of glances
of tears
scandal is my name.
My name is the holder
the dark
the transparent
the opaque
My name is the quiet one
the burning
the bitter
the trainer of hearts
the mounted
the seated
the ever present
to whom glory is given
My name is tramp
tyrant
burning
the solid
My name is the radiant
the lightning
the walker
holding tongues to their silence.
The king of kings I am
my mace raised in my hand
the tip of my dagger exempts no one
my throne is forever
and they call me:
pain!