Reflection That Rivals a Poem
With the clay of my thoughts
I try to sculpt what any man can see:
Liberation bartered for the graves of children,
Incense sticks lighted for holy men,
Tombstones constructed of black marble,
Fields scattered with skeletons,
Vultures and jackals bearing the names of heroes...
What else can be the picture of past
Other than memories punctured,
Like deserts pierced with snake and cactus?
What streams can wash it?
What lotions can heal its wounds?
The swarms of flies, that evolved,
Cover the dead nightingales,
While the night strolls in a sleepwalk...
As the night stretches its womb,
The day inches toward a re-birth;
While the shut and bolted window
Of the sea pauses to reject us.
The corridor of the sea is endless
And entries are free,
Exit takes a price:
Our print, us and our past...
I can see with my fingers
What my eyes touch:
Shadows and the billowing past...
With shadows I make reflections,
I scatter reflections with shadows.
Never touched the vanished,
Only seen with eyes closed:
The translucent birth
And the crystalline fall,
The reflection that rivals the poem!