I’m hallucinating in poetic verse
I’m cracking my way between images,
Lost between ivy and wonderlands
Metaphors are running in front of my eyes, senseless chicken
The blisters on my tongue made love to fever,
Then, you launched your
presences– one by one, ghosts or visions
Once more, my muse
Stop these lucid hallucinations of color and of poetry
Dig deeper into their origin:
It is there buried under what feels like bricks
Graceful, a bit tired but thankful
Scared, anxious and bustling
No definitely scared
Scared of withering away alone
here in this cold foreignness
Like Al Sayyab, he was a poet, wasn’t he?
Petrified at the thought:
Of leaving without showing enough how grateful and loving it can be
That little heart in me.
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