Post by Emad Fouad on Jul 26, 2007 18:32:06 GMT -5
A seducer .. whose name is poetry
Every night
he stands under the mercy of a light streaked with shadows
he loves the darkness
carrying beads
tattooed
more cunning than a fox in the wilderness
lighter than the wind
on the leaves.
He, the hunter
we know
disguised as a victim
saying
not everything in my hand is burning
I am the last of my lineage
I did not bestow my white love
onto my loyal sons
I
the son of chance
the trap
and the quick gazelle.
Cursed is he
dragging behind him owls
bees
the queen bee
his reed
an open wound on sound of footsteps
placing a foot in the air
the other on the ground
not dancing
but singing
singing, that son of a bitch
walking past the girls in a broad daylight
whispering to them in the solitude of the night:
sisters of my soul
in sadness.
We thought he was a tramp
giddy from one glass
our perfumed wine made him drunk
whenever he drank
he would write
to wipe out
to write
holding in his hand the strangled body of meaning
humiliating her
in front of our eyes
laughing
raising his red flag in the dewy night
as if he owned language
or
inherited
its seals.
Many a time we tried catching him
setting up our traps at dawn
sharpening our knives inherited from our forefathers
on moonless nights
we’d strew the path with traps
we would wake up every morning
to see him step on the grass
the bells on his garments chiming
as street dogs take cover in their bogs
and screaming in the wilderness
the jackals.
What stopped us
was not fear
or awe of being in our capture
or his gold that blinded our eyes
or the crust of bread dipped in the salt of homelessness
or the silver that glitters in the unusual dagger
or the tattered clothes that are out to dry on the scarecrow over the hill
something in him
had we caught him once
only
if.
Hiding amid his flocks
the chiming of his bells
the smiling twinkle in his eyes
the pursing of his angry lips
stepping with his bare feet on our shadows
we’d feel the light tread
on our chests
brushed lightly with mysterious wings.
The son of a bitch
going round in circles in front of our eyes
mocking our failure
our bent heads in defeat
our retreatiing steps
empty handed
with
one bruise on our lips the bite of regret!