in the auditorium we can hear the outside world dwindling
call for prayer and a pause for the call for words
nothing sacrilegious about the sun-set, the sound, the word
Ten years, write
read the voices that speak in the name of those who listen
read the words that have shaped nations
pushing them forth like ebb and flow
mark their words, with power
write: this is how the words gather to form you
a body, an audience, a history
write, let the words become you
back-dropped to the old court
back-lit walls, back-dated posters
a celebration is a sound you make in the throats of others
to cause jubilation; make noise, use the words
ten years merit the celebration
of nights opening and closing under an old fig tree
near where Mahmoud Darwish sipped his coffee every morning
watched the birds in flight and made the letters dance
a decade of dedication to the voices
that have once thought dead, fished from the rubble
nicked by the hands of time,
we are all aging, aren't we?
I meet them,master of the words, at the dark hour,
fresh from flight, unaware of the hearts
of the cities to come, with the week passing by
one week of their lives and a minute into mine
to go somewhere, you leave your whole self behind
but to come forth is a gift you give
those who are unable to move
too long is their absence and our fury
The night opens, outside the court,
in the auditorium we can hear the outside world dwindling
call for prayer and a pause for the call for words
nothing sacrilegious about the sun-set, the sound, the word
and the outside world is alive
a call for prayer rings in the night
in respect we ask, do we stop for the voice of God,
or do we continue to hear, the voice of God reflected in our words?
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