Mural
Here is your name
said the woman
and vanished in the corridor
A handās reach away I see heaven
a doveās white wing transporting me to another childhood
and I donāt dream that Iām dreaming
Everything is real
I meet myself at my side
And fly
I will become what will be in the final circuit
Everything is white
The sea hanging above a roof of white clouds
in the sky of the absolute white nothingness
I was and was not
Here alone at the white frontier of eternity.
I came before my hour so no angel approaches to ask:
what did you do over there in the world?
I donāt hear the chorus of the righteous or wailing of sinners
Iām alone in whiteness
alone ā¦
At the gate of resurrection nothing hurts
neither time past nor any feeling
I donāt sense the lightness of things nor the weight of apprehension
Thereās no one to ask:
where now is my where?
Where is the city of death
Where am I?
In this no-here ā¦
no-time
and nothingness
As if I had died already
I know this story
I know that I go towards what I donāt know
Perhaps Iām still alive somewhere
Aware of what I want ā¦
One day Iāll become what I want
One day I will become a thought
that no sword or book can dispatch to the wasteland
A thought equal to rain on the mountain split open by a blade of grass
where power will not triumph
and justice is not fugitive
One day Iāll become what I want
One day Iāll become a bird
that plucks my being from nothingness.
As my wings burn I approach the truth
and rise from the ashes
I am the dialogue of dreamers
I shunned body and self to complete the first journey towards meaning
but it consumed me then vanished
I am that absence
The fugitive from heaven
One day Iāll become what I want
One day Iāll become a poet
Water obedient to my vision
My language a metaphor for metaphors
I donāt speak or indicate a place
Place is my sin and subterfuge
I am from there
My here leaps from my footstep to my imagination ā¦
I am from what was or will be
I was created and destroyed in the expanse of the endless void
One day Iāll become what I want
One day Iāll become a vine
Let summer distil from me now
so passers-by beneath the chandeliers of this most sugared place
may drink my wine!
I am the message and the messenger
The small addresses and the post
One day Iāll become what I want
Here is your name
said the woman
and vanished in the corridor of her whiteness
Here is your name, memorize it well!
Donāt quibble over a letter of the alphabet
Ignore the tribal banners
Be friendly to your name which doesnāt stand but lies across the page
Test it out with the living and the dead
Train it in its proper pronunciation with strangers
Write it on a rock in the empty cave
O my name: you will grow as I do
You will carry me as I carry you
for strangers are brothers to strangers
Weāll entice the feminine with a vowel devoted to flutes
Oh my name: where are we now?
Speak out: what is now what is tomorrow?
What is time and place?
Whatās old whatās new?
One day weāll become what we want
The journey hasnāt begun and the path hasnāt ended
The wise havenāt reached their exile
nor the exiles their wisdom
The only flower we know is the red anemone
Come letās go towards the highest mural:
The land of my poem is green and high
Godās words at dawn are the land of my poem
and Iām the faraway
far away
In every breeze a woman mocks her poet:
Collect the woman you saw in me
who was shattered
and give me back my femininity
for I have nothing left to do but contemplate the lakeās wrinkles
Get rid of my tomorrow
Return my yesterday
and leave us alone together
After you
nothing leaves and nothing returns
Take back the poem if you want
for me thereās only you in it
Take back your āIā
The exile will be complete with whatās left of handwriting written for the carrier pigeons
At the end which me am I in us?
Of the two of us
let me be the last
A star will fall between the written and the said
A memory will lay out its thoughts: we were born in the time of the sword and the trumpet
between the fig and the cactus
Death was slower then more clear there was a truce across the mouth of the river
Now the electronic button works alone
the killer doesnāt hear his victims
and the martyrs donāt read out a testament
What breeze brought you here?
Tell me the name of your wound and Iāll tell you the road where weāll lose ourselves twice!
Your heartbeats hurt me for they lead to the time of legends
My blood hurts me
Salt hurts me ā¦
and my jugular vein
In the broken jug the women of the Syrian plains lament the length of the journey
and are scorched by the August sun
I saw them on the road to the well before my birth
and I heard the water in the clay weeping for them:
Return to the clouds and bring the carefree days
An echo said:
Nothing returns save the mighty past of the strong on their obelisks ā¦
their traces in gold
and the prayers of the weak addressed to tomorrow
Give us our daily bread
and a stronger now
for thereās neither reincarnation nor home nor eternity for us
An echo said:
Iām fed up with my incurable hope
sick of aesthetic traps: what is there after Babel?
The more the road clears to heaven
and the unknown reveals a final goal
the more the prose becomes prayer-like
and the song shatters
Green
The land of my poem is green and high
coming to me from the bed of my precipice
Strange you are
Itās enough that you alone are there
to become a tribe ā¦
I sang in order to feel the wasted horizon in the pain of a dove
not to explain what God says to man
Iām no prophet
I donāt proclaim that my fall is an ascent
I am the stranger from all I was given by my language
And if Iāve given my affections to Arabic
They have surrendered me to the feminine participle
And the words when far
are a land bordering a distant star
And the words when near
are an exile
And writing is not enough for me to declare:
I found my presence filling in absence
and whenever I searched for myself I found others
and whenever I searched for them I found only myself
the stranger
Am I a crowd of one?
I am the stranger
Obliged to cross the Milky Way seeking the beloved
Condemned by his gifts
that rui...