I told you
"God loves our poems."
Do you now believe
That I have a strong faith in writing?
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
A Bullet in the Heart
Did it come across you?
Sorry...
But you were aiming at me from the beginning
Making me a cardboard target
Jumping in the dark to frighten you
Strangely, a little ago it was signs
Guiding you home,
And pigeons you could catch roasted
With a look,
And a protective shirt against bullets and coldness
Stop this horror festival
And your childish pleasure with fireworks
Allow me to shoot the bullet of mercy
Or let me invite you to a completely different film
Without a sensitive string, mines, ice cream in the cold
Or a wrong kill.
Sorry...
But you were aiming at me from the beginning
Making me a cardboard target
Jumping in the dark to frighten you
Strangely, a little ago it was signs
Guiding you home,
And pigeons you could catch roasted
With a look,
And a protective shirt against bullets and coldness
Stop this horror festival
And your childish pleasure with fireworks
Allow me to shoot the bullet of mercy
Or let me invite you to a completely different film
Without a sensitive string, mines, ice cream in the cold
Or a wrong kill.
A Failure Cowboy Returns
An empty swing is staggering,
A toy thrown on the ground,
A photo album is flapped by the wind,
Winter is standing at the door,
Dust marks of two feet on the stairs,
And a tear on the window glass.
- I've come …no answer,
No letters on the dresser,
No blood on the knives,
Nor a bullet in the mirror,
The curtains are not burnt,
And the horse is in the stable
Making a plan for escaping
There's a smell of scorching … no … it's my heart
I want somebody to reply, to take me in his arms, to dust away the ice from my chest, to iron me with a cup of tea and to make me sit before the fireplace weeping and telling, leaving my revolver asleep; tiered and cold.
There's nobody!
I looked out of the window
I saw another cowboy coming,
Asking for the same address!
A toy thrown on the ground,
A photo album is flapped by the wind,
Winter is standing at the door,
Dust marks of two feet on the stairs,
And a tear on the window glass.
- I've come …no answer,
No letters on the dresser,
No blood on the knives,
Nor a bullet in the mirror,
The curtains are not burnt,
And the horse is in the stable
Making a plan for escaping
There's a smell of scorching … no … it's my heart
I want somebody to reply, to take me in his arms, to dust away the ice from my chest, to iron me with a cup of tea and to make me sit before the fireplace weeping and telling, leaving my revolver asleep; tiered and cold.
There's nobody!
I looked out of the window
I saw another cowboy coming,
Asking for the same address!
A letter
For Amal Donqoul
Do you remember the first poem I wrote on the dictation notebook?
The first time I went to the palace and heard about you? I thought you were a Sudanese she-poet!! and when I saw your writings with a slang she-poet I found your face carved and untidy; like a just fallen house – while still, on a pink wall , a photo of new bride and groom – your eyes were throwing light dawn the street ; like a fire in a pile of papers – your eyes were going home. Briefly, you looked much like a wall whitener or Upper-Egyptian baker.
Do you remember the first cigarette I smoked with you in the University City? The ash fell on "Don’t Reconcile" and I closed the book on it like the flower of lovers!
I was a junior intellectual then; still chewing prosody- now, I make fun of those who write in the tradition shape and those who are sunk in feet. I'm saying it badly:-" it's me who abandoned "ElKHalily" and wrote in prose! "I escaped from the maze and the coma of metaphors. However, they listen to me and clap their hands!!!
Sometimes, I pass the Blue Tram and the Great Alexander st.,
and I remember you
I see you turning round the wall of the Greek Graves.
Then I feel shy to call you: Amal... Where are you staying tonight?
I looked for you in the hospital where I was confined, in all the rooms with number "8", but I didn't find you! I left you a message with girls. When my friends came and mentioned you, I scolded them. But I wished to take a cigarette.
Is death so far away like that?
Then, how is your voice climbing the walls?
I think you have taught them to stay late or they have appointed you as a guard at the gate to infiltrate poems and cigarettes … Do you remember the old guard who was waiting for a thief that never came? He was waiting for many things, like you and me. He hoped to smell the sun rays in his pillow and to sweep the coldness spotted on pavements- kids scattered it from the newspapers seller's hands.
Now, I read for people living far away, I have published a poem in " Ebdaa " magazine, I have written a poems book in classic Arabic and saved it in my drawer and I hear the news at the café, I become angry, light a cigarette and order " anise"!
Is your voice till ground? Your hands a pot of concrete and ten blocks of red bricks? Are you still coughing before you get the morning cold? Are you still packing your chest with a fire before breakfast? Are you still getting your shoes aside; the shoes which were blackened by rambling and walking behind things?
I'm not like you, guy. I don't need to call my last street after your name. For I have just gone out of quarrelling with the mirror and stairs sprayed with chicken feathers. Sure you will ask wickedly:-" did the chickens fly naked to the roof?!" it's your habit,
Rough like a joy, and warmer than disappointment.
Do you remember the first poem I wrote on the dictation notebook?
The first time I went to the palace and heard about you? I thought you were a Sudanese she-poet!! and when I saw your writings with a slang she-poet I found your face carved and untidy; like a just fallen house – while still, on a pink wall , a photo of new bride and groom – your eyes were throwing light dawn the street ; like a fire in a pile of papers – your eyes were going home. Briefly, you looked much like a wall whitener or Upper-Egyptian baker.
Do you remember the first cigarette I smoked with you in the University City? The ash fell on "Don’t Reconcile" and I closed the book on it like the flower of lovers!
I was a junior intellectual then; still chewing prosody- now, I make fun of those who write in the tradition shape and those who are sunk in feet. I'm saying it badly:-" it's me who abandoned "ElKHalily" and wrote in prose! "I escaped from the maze and the coma of metaphors. However, they listen to me and clap their hands!!!
Sometimes, I pass the Blue Tram and the Great Alexander st.,
and I remember you
I see you turning round the wall of the Greek Graves.
Then I feel shy to call you: Amal... Where are you staying tonight?
I looked for you in the hospital where I was confined, in all the rooms with number "8", but I didn't find you! I left you a message with girls. When my friends came and mentioned you, I scolded them. But I wished to take a cigarette.
Is death so far away like that?
Then, how is your voice climbing the walls?
I think you have taught them to stay late or they have appointed you as a guard at the gate to infiltrate poems and cigarettes … Do you remember the old guard who was waiting for a thief that never came? He was waiting for many things, like you and me. He hoped to smell the sun rays in his pillow and to sweep the coldness spotted on pavements- kids scattered it from the newspapers seller's hands.
Now, I read for people living far away, I have published a poem in " Ebdaa " magazine, I have written a poems book in classic Arabic and saved it in my drawer and I hear the news at the café, I become angry, light a cigarette and order " anise"!
Is your voice till ground? Your hands a pot of concrete and ten blocks of red bricks? Are you still coughing before you get the morning cold? Are you still packing your chest with a fire before breakfast? Are you still getting your shoes aside; the shoes which were blackened by rambling and walking behind things?
I'm not like you, guy. I don't need to call my last street after your name. For I have just gone out of quarrelling with the mirror and stairs sprayed with chicken feathers. Sure you will ask wickedly:-" did the chickens fly naked to the roof?!" it's your habit,
Rough like a joy, and warmer than disappointment.
An Aluminum Cross
Cold metal
And hot blood
Isn't it unfair?
Don't you think if it were a window
It would be better for a young lad
To start his little theory of the universe,
Or a shelter for two lovers
Where they can hide and snap up a kiss in the coldness,
Or a rolling door to entrap music, smell of brandy and warm talks
Before we shake hands and get awaken by the last order,
Or a modernized chicken cage
For birds that flew away from the poems
And got aroused by the girls of our thoughts
Honestly,Isn't it unfair?
And hot blood
Isn't it unfair?
Don't you think if it were a window
It would be better for a young lad
To start his little theory of the universe,
Or a shelter for two lovers
Where they can hide and snap up a kiss in the coldness,
Or a rolling door to entrap music, smell of brandy and warm talks
Before we shake hands and get awaken by the last order,
Or a modernized chicken cage
For birds that flew away from the poems
And got aroused by the girls of our thoughts
Honestly,Isn't it unfair?
IF UNCLE YUSSEF DIDN’T COME
The sea sits beside Ahm Yussef
who only kisses Belmont[1] girls.
When I told him I'm afraid of death, he told me “you're an idiot.”
And because I leave my father home, busy with his loneliness, I've secretly made Ahm Yussef my father and haven't told him.
A priest, and the earth his monastery,
sitting in the Crystal Coffee Shop, chatting with the skies,
his prayers like a stone thrown at a pane of glass.
However, when you see someone angry at sailboats, heading off to deep water…
you will recognize Ahm Yussef.
I came today and didn't find him.
I asked Ahm Khamis , the waiter. He told me he hadn't come yet.
It's always like that: Even when he's sitting right there, I feel he hasn't come yet.
I used to sit at his feet and he would talk about the girls I love: young, their bodies trees of unripe fruits, their bones like pigeon bones, their smell, the taste of the sea in January. “ ‘Il tempo di mele’ ” he said to me in Italian, the age of apples.
I used to see him going to the sea to bathe at midnight, swimming in girls' nectar, the girls who swam all day, concealing their transparent bathing suits in the shy sea.
He comes out drunk, filling his bottles for the road, and when the bottles are empty, he’ll wake up frightened, gasping: “Volio una donna,” I want a woman.
If Ahm Yussef didn't come, many things wouldn't change.
We would just prepare a big funeral, sit playing chess along the corniche.
Everyone would talk about his girlfriend, his last haircut,
and once this speech poked the white space inside us we call sorrow, we’d remember we'd forgotten Ahm Yussef…. all alone.
The sky will be one solitary bed for him to stretch his body as he likes,
and a dark cloud will make the warmest blanket when his belly's bare.
In heaven he'll grow bored with all the naked girls and unforbidden wine, so he'll try to turn heaven into a perfect copy of the Crystal. And he'll treat the angels to lentils!
I picture him now reeling in the stars with a fishing pole, a bottle of beer beside him, laughing so hard at me when he sees me pass, smelling of girls.
[1]Belmont is a brand of Egyptian cigarette.
who only kisses Belmont[1] girls.
When I told him I'm afraid of death, he told me “you're an idiot.”
And because I leave my father home, busy with his loneliness, I've secretly made Ahm Yussef my father and haven't told him.
A priest, and the earth his monastery,
sitting in the Crystal Coffee Shop, chatting with the skies,
his prayers like a stone thrown at a pane of glass.
However, when you see someone angry at sailboats, heading off to deep water…
you will recognize Ahm Yussef.
I came today and didn't find him.
I asked Ahm Khamis , the waiter. He told me he hadn't come yet.
It's always like that: Even when he's sitting right there, I feel he hasn't come yet.
I used to sit at his feet and he would talk about the girls I love: young, their bodies trees of unripe fruits, their bones like pigeon bones, their smell, the taste of the sea in January. “ ‘Il tempo di mele’ ” he said to me in Italian, the age of apples.
I used to see him going to the sea to bathe at midnight, swimming in girls' nectar, the girls who swam all day, concealing their transparent bathing suits in the shy sea.
He comes out drunk, filling his bottles for the road, and when the bottles are empty, he’ll wake up frightened, gasping: “Volio una donna,” I want a woman.
If Ahm Yussef didn't come, many things wouldn't change.
We would just prepare a big funeral, sit playing chess along the corniche.
Everyone would talk about his girlfriend, his last haircut,
and once this speech poked the white space inside us we call sorrow, we’d remember we'd forgotten Ahm Yussef…. all alone.
The sky will be one solitary bed for him to stretch his body as he likes,
and a dark cloud will make the warmest blanket when his belly's bare.
In heaven he'll grow bored with all the naked girls and unforbidden wine, so he'll try to turn heaven into a perfect copy of the Crystal. And he'll treat the angels to lentils!
I picture him now reeling in the stars with a fishing pole, a bottle of beer beside him, laughing so hard at me when he sees me pass, smelling of girls.
[1]Belmont is a brand of Egyptian cigarette.
Microbus
Don't get angry with me
If I made fun of you
While you were crying in fear
Or if I mocked you
As you were laughing in forgetfulness
All I wanted was to take a little care of me
Because you would get off first
Leaving me alone for a long time
Collecting fare, opening and closing the door,
Reassuring the passengers who got off,
Patting the empty seats,
Whispering to windows that winked and shivered
And giving advice to the driver
Who is thinking how to warn you
Before the coming police patrol.
If I made fun of you
While you were crying in fear
Or if I mocked you
As you were laughing in forgetfulness
All I wanted was to take a little care of me
Because you would get off first
Leaving me alone for a long time
Collecting fare, opening and closing the door,
Reassuring the passengers who got off,
Patting the empty seats,
Whispering to windows that winked and shivered
And giving advice to the driver
Who is thinking how to warn you
Before the coming police patrol.
Mos'ad's Girls
He used to get drunk at the smell of poems we put in fire every Thursday night in "El-Hadara ", searching for himself in their metaphors. Many times, I caught him smiling during our talk, hoping that our feelings' camera would come across him.
He believed strongly in us, as if we were those clever kids who hurry to pack their bags with angels' words that they dropped while changing the shift; whereas, alas!, he is the fat and dull boy !!. Then, he used to spring to his feet and perform "The Dance of the Mouse".
If only I could, I would write a whole poems book for Mos'ad, whom I consider equal to ten magnanimous angels. But, unfortunately, there is not a sufficient poem.
Mos'ad, whom I saw making peace between two young angels at the corner of the street. They both were quarrelling about who could make Mos'ad weep first.
He used to accuse me of being a " Don Juan ", while I envied him secretly for the girls he saved in his belly. When he sleeps, they wake up,
Go out naked and stay up dancing, tickling him and coloring his lips and cheeks with their lipsticks. They used to hide behind his snores as the morning spied on them through the window. His mother wondered about the smell of soap that filled the room, the red lips marks on the pillow and the kohl in his eye-lids.
He used to walk about on the shore of lovers, putting his hands in his pockets and his heart in a girlish phantom, spraying salt and bits of Arabian jasmine from his eyes. Then, he went back to the café, where he smoked a spoilt apple "shisha" in his chest and puffed twisting smoke like a woman until he got dizzy by her dance.
The porn movies , which he watched, used to excite dogs, cats, chickens, weasels and mice, while he sat alone crying with his shaking belly in front.
We all knew the tales of girls who loved him but he didn't notice. Like his neighbor girl who took off all her clothes on the opposite roof and he covered her with his shyness. Later, they found her drowned and naked in a poem of a friend.
And the girl who once caught him having a wet dream on her voice. Hence, she didn't stop singing. They tried to conceal her voice with walls, wedding processions, mikes of mosques, funerals and quarrels.
And the girl who used to wait for him in the hall and the dark after every performance. The torch of her eyes made him forget half of the scene. When he came across her in the market, he discovered that she was blind and he helped her to cross the way. Later, he heard that she set fire to herself and ran naked and dancing to the theatre.
And the foreign girl, his friend, who kept calling at him "I'll miss you... I'll miss you.." and her hair was turning to white as she went away.
That is apart from the women who dreamed of him while they were sleeping with their husbands, that all the children in the lane look like copies of him.All that ought to make each one of us try to cover his laugh by a new poem. When we thought of setting up a club for lonely hearts, we made him, for more camouflage, the venue of the club. We hung our poems, as well as false signs to mislead the girls who come to ask about him.
He believed strongly in us, as if we were those clever kids who hurry to pack their bags with angels' words that they dropped while changing the shift; whereas, alas!, he is the fat and dull boy !!. Then, he used to spring to his feet and perform "The Dance of the Mouse".
If only I could, I would write a whole poems book for Mos'ad, whom I consider equal to ten magnanimous angels. But, unfortunately, there is not a sufficient poem.
Mos'ad, whom I saw making peace between two young angels at the corner of the street. They both were quarrelling about who could make Mos'ad weep first.
He used to accuse me of being a " Don Juan ", while I envied him secretly for the girls he saved in his belly. When he sleeps, they wake up,
Go out naked and stay up dancing, tickling him and coloring his lips and cheeks with their lipsticks. They used to hide behind his snores as the morning spied on them through the window. His mother wondered about the smell of soap that filled the room, the red lips marks on the pillow and the kohl in his eye-lids.
He used to walk about on the shore of lovers, putting his hands in his pockets and his heart in a girlish phantom, spraying salt and bits of Arabian jasmine from his eyes. Then, he went back to the café, where he smoked a spoilt apple "shisha" in his chest and puffed twisting smoke like a woman until he got dizzy by her dance.
The porn movies , which he watched, used to excite dogs, cats, chickens, weasels and mice, while he sat alone crying with his shaking belly in front.
We all knew the tales of girls who loved him but he didn't notice. Like his neighbor girl who took off all her clothes on the opposite roof and he covered her with his shyness. Later, they found her drowned and naked in a poem of a friend.
And the girl who once caught him having a wet dream on her voice. Hence, she didn't stop singing. They tried to conceal her voice with walls, wedding processions, mikes of mosques, funerals and quarrels.
And the girl who used to wait for him in the hall and the dark after every performance. The torch of her eyes made him forget half of the scene. When he came across her in the market, he discovered that she was blind and he helped her to cross the way. Later, he heard that she set fire to herself and ran naked and dancing to the theatre.
And the foreign girl, his friend, who kept calling at him "I'll miss you... I'll miss you.." and her hair was turning to white as she went away.
That is apart from the women who dreamed of him while they were sleeping with their husbands, that all the children in the lane look like copies of him.All that ought to make each one of us try to cover his laugh by a new poem. When we thought of setting up a club for lonely hearts, we made him, for more camouflage, the venue of the club. We hung our poems, as well as false signs to mislead the girls who come to ask about him.
Other World
You were so late for me
And I have missed several processions of angels and believers
For you
However, you are so cool and careless
Coming to me blind drunk in your paper launch
With dark angels dragging your girls from the hair
Girls you spilt their blood in your hidden tales
But you exposed them with your solitude and adoration
That guaranteed you a furnished paradise
Which nobody will step inExcept you.
And I have missed several processions of angels and believers
For you
However, you are so cool and careless
Coming to me blind drunk in your paper launch
With dark angels dragging your girls from the hair
Girls you spilt their blood in your hidden tales
But you exposed them with your solitude and adoration
That guaranteed you a furnished paradise
Which nobody will step inExcept you.
Prayers
The Virgin Mary wakes up with me
Preparing the breakfast which I always forget,
Blessing me with pocket-money,
A yellow uniform with yellow buttons, to be invisible in the break,
A black bag to absorb the darkness, which passes in the reciting period,
And a broom that says "morning" to the sky and washes the asphalt,
So that the sun sees herself in its mirror.
I'm still feeling the stomachache
When I see Ayman, I cross my self
Laughing and carrying tow aches in the stomach
- Ready to recite?
No -
- Miss Stick will beat the feet of innkeepers
- May God make her die
I, God, Ayman don’t like her
We made a deal on Thursday,
I would pray in El-Sheikh Ibrahim mosque,
Ayman would pray in the Angel church,
And god would take her off her wooden hands, class 3/2 and reciting
On Saturday;
We found her wooden hands in the drawer, her head up and her eyes in the plate
She died in his hands while reciting ….
I meet clever children crying
While the three of us are happy.
Preparing the breakfast which I always forget,
Blessing me with pocket-money,
A yellow uniform with yellow buttons, to be invisible in the break,
A black bag to absorb the darkness, which passes in the reciting period,
And a broom that says "morning" to the sky and washes the asphalt,
So that the sun sees herself in its mirror.
I'm still feeling the stomachache
When I see Ayman, I cross my self
Laughing and carrying tow aches in the stomach
- Ready to recite?
No -
- Miss Stick will beat the feet of innkeepers
- May God make her die
I, God, Ayman don’t like her
We made a deal on Thursday,
I would pray in El-Sheikh Ibrahim mosque,
Ayman would pray in the Angel church,
And god would take her off her wooden hands, class 3/2 and reciting
On Saturday;
We found her wooden hands in the drawer, her head up and her eyes in the plate
She died in his hands while reciting ….
I meet clever children crying
While the three of us are happy.
Praying is better than sleeping
A bomb, with soft fur,
Is rolling in slow motion before your eyes
It can illuminate your way
While you are going out to the dawn prayers
Its bang will melt in calls for prayers
Coming out of five hi-fi mikes
Cheering your going down the street,
And jamming the obsession of devils in casual
Who are dancing around you.
It can tear up the girls
Whose lustful eyes are fixed on you
In a continuous striptease all along the way.
On your way back, don't be surprised
That pairs of shoes in front of the mosque
Are more than the number of prayers
Who got the honor of martyrdom
But never seen a single bit
Of what you have seen.
Is rolling in slow motion before your eyes
It can illuminate your way
While you are going out to the dawn prayers
Its bang will melt in calls for prayers
Coming out of five hi-fi mikes
Cheering your going down the street,
And jamming the obsession of devils in casual
Who are dancing around you.
It can tear up the girls
Whose lustful eyes are fixed on you
In a continuous striptease all along the way.
On your way back, don't be surprised
That pairs of shoes in front of the mosque
Are more than the number of prayers
Who got the honor of martyrdom
But never seen a single bit
Of what you have seen.
Salt
To the salt, sprinkled with rain, on her door
In the winter nursery,
While Alexandria's mouth was full to the brim with brandy,
I opened my chest and slumbered
Coldness clasped my heart
Seeing the winter at the beginning of the street,
I turned my face away
I hid the jolt in a crisscross shirt
I was afraid to meet it alone with my shyness
On the wet rolling paper,
I wrote your telephone number
But now I have scrabbled a sun
Strong enough to dry up "Fouad Street"
So that I can say "Good morning" to the pain
And remember the first scandal
I hid from my rudeness
And I got onto weeping
Ooh! Alexandria is not for free
Her bite leads to the sea
And you are all dupes
Leaving me crying in Cavafy's House
Before the waiters,
Bales of cotton in El-Abbari,
The hall of auction in El-Attarin,
Her house
And the attic closed on smoke
How shall I believe all that alone?!
In the winter nursery,
While Alexandria's mouth was full to the brim with brandy,
I opened my chest and slumbered
Coldness clasped my heart
Seeing the winter at the beginning of the street,
I turned my face away
I hid the jolt in a crisscross shirt
I was afraid to meet it alone with my shyness
On the wet rolling paper,
I wrote your telephone number
But now I have scrabbled a sun
Strong enough to dry up "Fouad Street"
So that I can say "Good morning" to the pain
And remember the first scandal
I hid from my rudeness
And I got onto weeping
Ooh! Alexandria is not for free
Her bite leads to the sea
And you are all dupes
Leaving me crying in Cavafy's House
Before the waiters,
Bales of cotton in El-Abbari,
The hall of auction in El-Attarin,
Her house
And the attic closed on smoke
How shall I believe all that alone?!
Spaghetti
Before my blood,
A big dish of macaroni
A lamp with sauce
Trees planted on the dining table
A window that doesn't overlook the desert
In front, there is a china hunger
My legs are not under the dish
They came before me
- What's your name?
-Esam
-Can you walk on the blackboard?
- Give me the chalk slippers and watch
- Don't believe him. His toes are all coal
- Is the dish empty, or am I gloomy?
- The plate is white, and you are rusty?
Her name was Narges
And her brother's pajamas were called Nabil
Show me
A big dish of macaroni
A lamp with sauce
Trees planted on the dining table
A window that doesn't overlook the desert
In front, there is a china hunger
My legs are not under the dish
They came before me
- What's your name?
-Esam
-Can you walk on the blackboard?
- Give me the chalk slippers and watch
- Don't believe him. His toes are all coal
- Is the dish empty, or am I gloomy?
- The plate is white, and you are rusty?
Her name was Narges
And her brother's pajamas were called Nabil
Show me
Still Nature
Your look, only, burned my withered shirt
Whereas all I did I left you sleeping with the glasses
On your face in order to see your dreams on the net
Instead of running over another further dream
In the climax of your stained dream with gay colors
, that would melt under the first shower of tears,
I introduced a hot color to warm your bed
And to soften your bald brush
I depended hopefully on our common background
, the firm gilded frame that contained our picture together
And the soft lines that were never cut
But you went too far
Taking much of my details
Making my tales a still nature
You forgot they could shout in your face
You handed me over to the cold moment
, as a model naked of any resistance,
With its eyes exploring my skin
And its imagination wading into my heart
Looking for a red point to get it nearer to the centre
Of the picture
So, why are you in panic?
As you are standing before a massacre of colors,
A naked body, an open heart, poured blood
And sweaty shyness
Now, can you draw a picture of me
, with interest, from the memory?
Whereas all I did I left you sleeping with the glasses
On your face in order to see your dreams on the net
Instead of running over another further dream
In the climax of your stained dream with gay colors
, that would melt under the first shower of tears,
I introduced a hot color to warm your bed
And to soften your bald brush
I depended hopefully on our common background
, the firm gilded frame that contained our picture together
And the soft lines that were never cut
But you went too far
Taking much of my details
Making my tales a still nature
You forgot they could shout in your face
You handed me over to the cold moment
, as a model naked of any resistance,
With its eyes exploring my skin
And its imagination wading into my heart
Looking for a red point to get it nearer to the centre
Of the picture
So, why are you in panic?
As you are standing before a massacre of colors,
A naked body, an open heart, poured blood
And sweaty shyness
Now, can you draw a picture of me
, with interest, from the memory?
Withered without a goblet
She closed the door behind,
Hanged sleeplessness on the shutters,
And sat to play with the few feelings
that haven't withered yet: " I hate you … I love you"
Her pump lips become dry
, cause of long silence?
, cause of lacking kisses?
or, cause of her fear that if she sighed,
the memory would get out of her chest?
She is sitting, shining the darkness
in the corner of her plain bed,
Like a photography film in its box,
undeveloped yet.
She is winking to the lamp,
closing her eyes in front of the smoking of the street lights ;
Her pump lips become dry
, cause of long silence?
, cause of lacking kisses?
or, cause of her fear that if she sighed,
the memory would get out of her chest?
She is sitting, shining the darkness
in the corner of her plain bed,
Like a photography film in its box,
undeveloped yet.
She is winking to the lamp,
closing her eyes in front of the smoking of the street lights ;
imagining a big fire wandering about in houses flesh, grilled hearts,
old letters flying their lines with smoke in a flock ,
songs melt on lips
"I'm waiting for you … I'm …la ...la ..."
"I'm waiting for you … I'm …la ...la ..."
While blue flowers in the cushion are horribly growing on her head
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