al-Maskubiyyah 2

That night,
I sat under the utility pole in a misty summer night,

In a night where the pale neon light
gave a consistent impression of loneliness and coldness, and tight …
was the nostalgia that settled beyond me in the front yard,
along with its bewildering silence and
much carefulness and passivity.

The garden didn’t wake up from the cold neons or from the warmth of a moment that emerged from the inner sun and wandered around like dry dust in the middle of the street until it reached the boundaries of fear at the point when it met and touched the edges of darkness:

It woke up from the absence of the immediate truth, my own;
and from ancient fondness in the matters of a heart,

that used to be my own.”

It vanishes, that coarse state of the street, along with its smooth and streamlined particles of light that head towards carrying the last shadows on my little face, and take them towards my moon,

towards a song that took me far,
at a moment when tree leafs just started to know me.

Few shadows of daily truths sneak up on me in the midst of this foggy Ramallah evening, just like the hidden worlds of the Mediterranean valleys just behind our house…

“The inner shadows retreat.”
And too my own …
I catche up with the cold lights and I wait for the sun to rise and hide in a world of sad lights that make the delusion of my own
true skin darker than ever:

“Darkness is enlightenment, and lights are fear.
“A sound is coldness, and silence is luminous.”

I retire at the bottom of darkness; and sleepy in my bed seem to be some secret lights.
The coldness of the trembling cotton sheets feels
like a warm rose, that used to be my own.

I visited myself, down at the narrow streets … my streets,
and once again
I was mesmerized by the migrate birds that flew over a world that has little to offer but my remains.

I then dreamed of a winter that sprinkled on my face its own beginnings and spread its smell all over the concept of place,
and I hugged the dear green leafs of the ceratonia carob tree and I then spent the night on what remains of the dear warmth of the side walk, and I then dissolved,
and dissolved got several verses of folk poetry

that bend its knees.

I bow towards a fate full of obsessions with dissolutions

and I throw myself,
and poetry throws itself on summer flowers and it bends,

I then bend on the ground,

and earth doesn’t remember poetry or names, but walks down the streets at night like a non-behaved river, and a whispering voice runs along chasing the sparkling waters and runs over my melting hunting-net, and right through my crying glass, through my worries about some alleged worlds of one world, and then the whole world
flies away!