The scarifies

A ram was sacrificed in the desert
but we say, why do we have to keep this tradition
of killing to live and let live the fury in us not God-sent
not God-granted or given by name or forced in action

relentless is the blood that pours and this anger
that frequents the borders, where no man walks freely
and the women live to serve
to only serve

tadhiya is scarifies, but the weight of the word is different
to average listeners, it can mean anything alive meant for death only
to us it also means a life-line
left following other people's dreams instead of our own

a ram was sacrificed in the desert in the place of a son
but why do we keep killing our sons and daughters in place
of rams in the desert, we are not tribal any more
we claim to be civilized instead in this clear mindness.  

The writer says to me

I enjoy the sound made by your keyboard
typing, there is a strength in clanking
the sound of your voice, the weight of meaning
in your words.

the secret

A secret
is a phrase shared
between the folds of a soul and another

Bow, bow

Bow for he is passing
the one that separates his shadow from the wind

too high for comfort, his laughter
inappropriate for red carpets and high walls

bow, bow
empty the street bellow your balcony

vacate from cars and all animals
divert the traffic too, preferably

for the shadow of those who break us
cannot simply mingle with the shadows of those like us

bow, bow
for he is passing

the wind, his shadow
those who have final say in our voice

a point of light

There is a point of light
that gathers within dark spots
its is called a heart, most of the times

The notion that you are not enough

is strong like a hurricane that tips off
a tree that has been aging like old wine

the notion that you are not enough
finds you on the days you pray most to be seen

like a shadow, it follows you
because it has been born and bread in you

these cells that carry you over
the drag of days that prolong

like the illusive nature of today
that is is part of yesterday and a part of tomorrow

the notion that you are not enough
lifts you like a storm would a tree

from its roots makes you
turn like a fire to a wick

Construction

Like building blocks,
it is made slowly
how one speaks in different voices
yet sounds bluntly the same

news, cables, doves

What news, can these cables give me
that the dove has not yet whispered
to my lonely ears?

An apathy to shapes

I no longer care how shapes define me
look closely, the earth is round
yet it behaves as if it is a linear arrow

the undercurrent

Like an undercurrent
pulling over a log of wood
change does not wait for oxygen

Basil leaves

Your lips are leaves of basil
when they part
the aroma is all I can take in

Easier to let go

It is easier to let go

if you do not have power to see the dream 

before your eyes like a realized tomorrow

Immovable

this repetition is immovable
this rendition of words and works is immovable
this speedy act of reassuring the voice gets to you
is immovable

immovable is this repetition
immovable are the works
immovable is the act of voicing
yet it moves you

Estrangement

to walk with a head in a cloud
with feet on the ground
a higher vision and worn out shoes

The last dance

is always longer than expected
with feet turned out toward the final port of goodbye

with emotion, the very minute before breaking
into two different bodies

this is the effect of finality that there is a line
as evasive as the horizon

yet always present, a mad turn
like a fish outside of water

a moment that will run out but is sensory
enough, left skin over hands, hair falling on the shoulders like waterfalls

a move into the direction of sound
a body breaking over another that is departing

there are things we do for pleasure
ones we never speak about when we have a chance to redefine fun

a swan's song in an overstretched winter
is only an attempt to break iced-over waters

I cannot help how my feet greet you
it is the heart I keep worrying about on daily basis

Discountinued Writing

As if with chains of punishment

the words leave me 

when I try to resume writing years after abandoning the pens

A brief history of genealogy

compact like sand grains in an hourglass
the minutes you spend narrating a story of an origin

like sand grains the voices are now
closer to being characters than people who have once hugged me into life

you say, gently with the peeling of beans:

one came with the eastern wind from where others are now escaping
the land of good food, merry afternoons and Palmyra making space for other civilisations

another came from the land of wine, vowels, warm suns
Roman ruins without retaining the language only short sleep and merriment

a third descends from where the cedars converse with God
on the matters of ordinary men and women between day-light and sun-down

the forth was birthed where I am standing,
surrounded with olives trees, dust, sunshine and struggles

binding is this difference, conflicting is this fear
of letting it go to waste; that beauty, that richness, that spirit

hard to tell, I lean toward the western sun,
teach myself to rewrite my contradiction like an old useless chapter of a long book

all this, then runs in my blood
of this genealogy I inherited the fear and a traveler's will

a bird has no roots
irrespective of its wings, it has, a home.

freedom from the questions

when you do not ask for it
it arrives,
freedom

a midsummer nightmare

Not detailed like an apple spiraling down on me
in various sizes, or a car driving off a cliff into the oblivion
my nightmares are simpler these days;
I dream of dancing with you

with the same intensity after chasing three snakes away
letting one bite out my ankle
with poison in my veins
I dream of dancing with you all night.

Literary canon

Shoot out of the base
those works you tired your eyes
reading at luxury in your bedroom
this is the literary canon you are trapped in;
half of what you are, half of what you read.

embracing freedom

Embracing freedom
with hands instead of worn-out wings
is bear-like, soft and dangerous

you evade me

with music, as if running away needs its own track
what lies you have gifted yourself the chance to trust

with silence, you greet the day
for the lack of noise can clear what remains of the eclipse in you

lunar, a temperamental evening
with art, you evade coming to terms with your smile

they call it survival's guilt
this compelling need to redesign yourself

with all this movement
will there be  stillness? I hear you ask

in the heart of the mountain

Situated in the heart of the mountain,
not quiet the valley,we wait for the glow of the first star

night repaints the evening as your face
tells a story of finding footing

we walked down from the hills 
into the valley without seeking water 

without following a light 
as if water is always our beginning 

men, women, animals searching the hills 
for our dignity to restore the shame of our forefathers 

we looked and found the heart of the mountain 
in a valley

I nod, rest my head on your shoulder
look outside of myself for answers

among friends, among faces, among the rocks
that make most of the hills we call mountains by negation

but the sound of my voice has been lost with the laughter
emitting from the glowing embers and the friends who say goodbye with a smile

goodbyes are a lot easier these days
accompanied by promises of the world getting smaller  as we grow older

between the wine and the kanoon, our bonfire
you sit, back-turned over  knowing that the minute you sought another

the one you left behind stopped respelling your name
with ash and embers on the rocks of the valley.

Reference to shame

You reference shame in the midst of summer

the same way you reference cold

with a shudder, as if cold should always be shy 

of its snow 

Restoring faith

is a long process
the restoration of faith

it means there was a loss somewhere
a tie severed, yet still healing

without glue, plasters or all the stitching needed
for a possible regaining of belief

this is the thing about faith,
the power to believe in invisible wings

shielding your shoulders in big cities in the underground
walking next to you in the small towns,

this is the return of faith
you wear an old jacket that fits just right.

the hair, like a corpse

on the ground
like a dead corpse
is the hair your fingers twirled around

relative sizing

How narrow is this bubble of yours
zone free from dissecting lines
how big in comparison, is the homeland?

The right to strike

with an old bat, a shoulder that is already broken
with a hat, a head that is too stubborn to accept cover from sunlight
with a pillow, enough dreams beating sleep into place
with a group of students, new ways to change the unchangeable
with a force, the action against a reaction that tumbles like a rolling stone
with a gentleness of a hand, colors that make the sky spin into a rainbow

on burning embers

Admire, is a strong verb
one you usually give for those who leave
even if their new start includes walking on burning embers

Repainting the roundabout

Paint drips over the end of the roundabout
fresh, like a surviving ice-cream

the flowers have been tainted too,
a little red on their summer-white petals

this doesn't save you, the face-value of paint
in the morning hours, there were thoughts

about a special occasion, made for the purpose of visitation
but the paint keeps dropping without guard

they said a king was visiting,
let's paint over this city;

repaint our tears
repaint the tank tracks
repaint the lovers night walks
repaint the tainted ugly faces
repaint the lack of air
repaint, let the red paint drip over the flowers.

a debate

A tone higher than mine, yours 

at a discussion, no party wins

why then, the fury

the leap

Leap, you said
from a high-building onto a ground soft
like cotton

it is easy, for those who are assured to speak
eloquently like you did that day
when you spoke of faith

Alien to the norm

Like a broken record 

alien to the norm

this is how you sound, writing in a language 

you were not born into

Learning new letters

You ask me to read the letters you learnt once
but failed to retain, presently, with effect

I spell out the words for you to no avail
there is no use making up sound in a language your heart doesn't speak

I ask you once more, for a reason the threading broke
in your voice to no avail

you answer me with reason
say, the guns poured over my notebooks
when I was just in the sixth grade
all I had was holes in my letters

Good in a city

There is nothing good that comes out of a city

when its sons and daughters 

sleep in rags, with empty stomachs 

in a suitcase

it is hard, you tell me
the different ways one has to fold
a homeland and stow it in a suitcase