There is always a moment that
passes by with its languid tempo,
freezing your soul in a mould of wax.
Unable to understand anything,
you sit like a statue of a pharaonic priest
with a pair of glasses
reciting silently the book of incantations,
which failed to preserve him from erosion
or from being exposed to people’s eyes…
It seems one never learns
before he burns his tongue, fingers and heart!
As if loneliness and horror
were not the same miserable picture
in the old apartment of the family…
So why would you sigh now in grief?
And how long would you deceive time?
Isn’t it better to fully fill your space,
and not give the chance
to any fool idea,
or mad sparrow,
or dull word
threatening your defenses
and making you feel all this weakness?
Translated by the author
published in Meena Magazine 2005
Painting by Abd El- Hady El-Gazzar
