Post by Emad Fouad on Jul 26, 2007 18:33:08 GMT -5
Maryam
She was sleeping
fluttering over her lips the shadow of a smile
and between her fingers a clear river
her punctured feet
in the middle of her palm
moving at the unusual rhythm of chirping birds
and she is quietly placed
on the top of high camphor trees.
Tall tamphor trees
surrounding her
as if it were his stiff fingers
where they hammered in the nails
to steady the frail palms
in the wood of the crucifix.
As if sleeping
with his rigid body
the son of his mother
seeing things with a closed eye
clear in the whiteness of comfort
intense in its darkness
his eye lids close on an unclear dream
his small heart
running like a horse after her last cry
running like one stung
between a peak
and a valley.
Passing in front of his is Maryam
while his eyes are closed on the cross
the quiet, level-headed girl
the daughter of the delicate limbo
between femininity
and childhood.
Above reproach
sure of herself like a beech tree
as if she doesn’t know him
he who watches her in his sleep
behind transparent partitions
the soft air toying with her
her image fluttering in his mind
as if it were a sudden reflection of the moon
on a calm lake.
As if he were asleep
not from exhaustion
but to dream with his arms wide open
while birds with obscure colours
roam around his body
his extremities are cruelly pulled
like the strings of an Arab lute
taught and forcibly in three directions
a familiar saltiness like her kiss
pulling the sweet water
from between his lips.
As if he were asleep
not from exhaustion
but to see her alone in her Eastern place
walking – when she walks – with eyes downcast
as if when not seeing others
they cannot see her
as if with her quick gait
she escapes the trail of coloured butterflies
persistently following her
wherever she goes.
Maryam
Is not the girl that grew up in sin
not the one that warmed her place in sleep
with menstrual blood flowing from her chastity
not the one with a deep wound in her forehead
she changed her form and became like a widow
the one
that did not dream of a child resembling her
proudly showing him off in front of the other family women.
Maryam
alone in her Eastern place
no letters reach her from friends in years
no friends ask about her health
only him on his crucifix
knows of her loneliness
except for the frail hands
feeling the size of her belly as it grows
day after day.
Maryam
a cry like a bullet
shattered the glass of her window at night
she is no longer calm enough
so that the messiah can sleep.
Angry
when she pointed at him
as they circled them both
he, tongue-tied
did not speak.