د. صلاح الدين الحريري


Full Text


The Potter’s Song


Convex demands concave they say

And shapelessness shouts for array;

I’ve walked my life in mud and dust

But worshipped with my hands the clay.


Upon the wheel my fingers dance

Arresting chaos in a trance;

They spin and spill and roll until

No longer is my will a chance.


My furnace and my eyes are one

They burn and, burning, they have fun;

They rape the clay and as they play

They reach their climax in their sun.


When leaves and birds dance high and low;

A dubious welcome to the snow,

My window blurs and weeps to tell

How wonderful it feels in hell!


Once made, my pot is not my own

For hot and cold are not the same,

It fills with wine a stranger’s cup

And leaves me staring at the flame.


The Forest Sorceress


it was the ancient forest once again—

the trees must have forgotten what they were:

trunkless they stood

their summer branches

dripping olive green

a thick inviting ambush

of story-tellers


the supple leaves


gifted with silence

that was more

than silence ever was





“all dreams are hushed reality”

whispered a voice so magical

a voice that sounded like your own


it was your own


for as ordained

by power of that summer dawn

you were the forest sorceress





you smiled

did nothing more or less

the grapevine leaves

on stems unseen

marveled their way

up to the summer branches

circled and sifted through

those supple leaves

sifted and circled through


no one could tell

which was which

but you


who slipped upon a whisper of her own

stripping the grapevines all naked

their purplish darkish marbles

just awakened

to ripeness that meant fall

to each and all


into a silver bowl

that floated up and down

just surfacing the breeze

almost touching the leaves


and that

under the harvest burden

of those marbles

turned almost unnoticed

into a slice of watermelon


a cradle of a moon

that’s half-remembered


then you

the forest sorceress

with feet that fit a seductress

squeezed those marbles

into sparkles

sprinkling dawns and suns thereafter

with your purplish vinous laughter




a recurrent dream


strained with the dryness of nocturnal thirst

tongues gasping for the sound of promised rain


the crackling leaves

under the naked ghosts of forest trees


almost at dawn


abruptly stirred

and raised an eyelid

( or was it two?)

above their sleeping level of the earth


when there

from underneath

from everywhere


gushed the swishing song of holy springs


when then and there


two jasmine rings

sprinkled two halos round your feet

and you

like the melodious song of holy springs

though from nowhere

moved silently

like a suggestion in the air

treading the twilight leaves of memory.





like baby skin

that’s been

rubbed too hard too long

against a blanket’s edge

my wakefulness

glowing with self-transparency

into luxurious drops of purple light

split at last.


the dangling night

scratching its layers out of dawny sleep

trembled and rambled all about

absolved of tinge and glint

of hue and hint

of past and future memory


the present was the color of the mind


from whose contingent guts

a gushing scent of purplish grey

swirled up to play

some hazed unheard-of symphony

of soundless tunes

(oh, have you heard of sandless dunes,

of waves the dancing grass collects

from sweeping winds far far away

from sea or river, pond or bay ?)


something as indescribable

though always there, ungraspable,

was giving birth to birth.






The martyr is a field of wheat

A basketful of bread and meat

All, all divine --

The rarest wine

From promised lands untrod by man

Since Eve and Adam brought the fall

Upon the body and the soul

The rarest wine --

A syllable of piercing light

So gentle on the sight --

A jasmine coffin for the sweetest soul

That fondly teases the prostrating night

With holy perfume, holy white --

A dance sublime

A dance superior to the dance

To steps and twists and jerks

To shaking and to wiggling rhyme

Sublime, sublime --

A blessed Hamlet but without

His hesitation or his doubt

To set the jointless world to right --

The martyr is a joyful sigh

And not a cry

A whisper from the earth unheard

Except by angles in the sky

Beyond the sky

A joyful whisper, joyful sigh.




his destination was a point

obscure in distance:

a blade entranced


by the shock

of splashing light

the glaring suns


splintered against it

sharpening it



it was a point that was no more than



* * * * *


the lucid morning and  the lucid eye

entwined in purpose

drove the truck for him

his fingers green upon the wheel

playing his secret song

to keep him company

driving and driven as it were

toward the point that was no more than there.


* * * * *



a smuggled carpet

rolled itself

upon the flying tyres

to unroll

outlandish scenes of greenery

visions of grass

the lucid eye had had for centuries:


* * * * *


the tender neck

yielding in frightening willingness

in joyful terror

to the blade

that blinked and burst

and fell

a pregnant leaf

soaking in brightening dew

trembling with green - -

the nails that hunt for blood

rending two hearts wide open

in the hands

that blossomed on an olive tree

two holy branches of eternity - -

twin anguished horses

trained by anguished hands

shooting across the flames of sworded men

twin voices howling

in the name of him

whose will they served

twin swords


estranging life from life

poisoning with justice all the hearts of men

whose worldly cure had been their worldly pride

and dropping both upon the scourging sands

where two palm trees were turning emerald.


* * * * *


one blink

and merged the trains of ancesters

bringing all time and distance to the point

where time and distance were no more than there

one blink

and clashed  the glaring suns

the splashing light

splinters of red and green


once again

two lines inimical

the horizontal and the vertical

cut through each other in a fatal dare

to form the point that was no more

than there.




from “ The Night of New Jersy”


“nazih koubrusli”



a mile or just a little less off shore

the island lies indifferent

the morning waves

babbling and hissing

thrust their arms in air

clutch hard and harder at the sloping rocks

and failing to stay longer than they dare

crawl down in playful silence

not despair

to try it once again incessantly.


* * * * *


the scene kept humming back from memory

a haunting recollection of a trip

a summer visit

he once had paid the island on a boat

it  really did not matter much

that now he could not see those rocks

the splendid rise of splendid waves

the rhythmic silence of their fall

for now the inward look was all.


* * * * *


a mile

or just a trifle less

of rippling blue

stretched now between the island rocks

and him

whose tightened eyes were bent

over a strip of trampled sand

on sidon beach

the twelve – year – old foot

rubbed the sand

contrived the letters n and k

kicked hard

the splashing sand gave way

as bit by bit

was heaving into view

a shotgun sheathed up in a piece of cloth.

he looked around in silence

not a stir

except the wings of pigeons


over a sleeping minaret :


* * * * *


the gardens of the ancient king tennes

are all abandoned lasses of the earth

the breeze a stripping wind

the brightful moon

a stranger trespassing

a conqueror

unveiling to the world

the prideful nakedness of arms

of shoulders


and budding breasts…

the garden’s walls can not detain the king

he flies across the jasmines to the gate

that spits him out in shameful agony

amidst the piercing howls of warriors

so young so furious and so proud

they twirl and twirling shake the soil

uprooting flowers jasmine trees

trampling to silence all the reeds

performing there the burial dance

of their abandoned lasses

before the persian blood invades

their purest veins

and ravishes

their city’s heart…

the blazing hands

rebellious undulations through the dark

inflict upon the crackling soil

a sweeping conflagration


both life and shame

when all at once

beyond the choking city walls

are roused frustrated cries of war

the voice of king artahshashta

declaring his glorious defeat

his stolen triumph

forever swallowed by the whirling clouds


* * * * *


he looked around in silence once again

still not a stir

except the wings of pigeons


over the sleeping minaret

he pushed two steady steps off shore

the mosque was taller than before

the pigeons flickered out of sight

his arms were getting tight

what happened next he could not tell

but when he fell

the star of david on the truck

was bleeding endlessly.


* * * * *

a mile or just a little less off shore

the island lay indifferent

the morning waves

babbling and hissing

thrust their arms in air

clutched hard and harder at the sloping rocks

and failing to stay longer than they dared

crawled down in playful silence

not despair

to try it once again incessantly.


from “ The Night of New Jersy”


Summer 1982


(written during the Israeli siege of Beirut in 1982)


A crimson epidemic is summer time.

It self-splinters inside us

Spreading about

Wriggling like tongues of hot exhalations

Surging as though from the lava caverns of the earth;

Splinters like gasps

Like breath deeply inhaled;

Firebrands forgotten from yesterday’s fire

And thought to be

By them who never felt their stings

Children’s red marbles

Glowing along the patio in the sun

Marbles that crack like laughter

Stolen from a summer vacation—

With the playing children thirsty for those marbles

That look like grapes

Colored with crimson blood

Burning with the longings of the lover known as Kays,

Longings all searching for the beloved

In a desperate moment,

Contented with even an apparition of her.

Woe! Woe to that moment of glowing longing and of despair.

Oh God in heaven, spare us, spare us all of that

For crimson, crimson is our month of August.


Bob Wrench



The drawer half-open had been left –

A scream, suspended – and the glare

Of thousand shapes pinned Bob’s both eyes

And both his hands until the spell

Was shaken off: a miracle

He could not tell how it occurred!

He strolled his fingers on the glare

Of thousand shapes and picked it up

And shut the drawer.

He rolled his eyes that gathered light

But could not tell who had been there.


All the perplexing colors of

Those dancing shapes upon that board

Were his, he thought, if no one would

Pop in his head to claim them back;

He would shellack

His horse’s neck with them and would

Demand attention on those farms

When he’d go home on Christmas Eve.

His neighbors, old and young, he thought,

Would hang their burning eyes upon

His horse’s neck,

Upon the glare of thousand shapes,

And whisper that he, he the clerk,

Had made it and had paid the price;

And he would pass them one by one,

His eyes two vacant balls of ice.

His breath, a stream of heat, collapsed

Upon a fraction of one ghost

That turned his head a freezing lake.

He strode to break

The sneering ghost of fear in two

And in confusion shut the staring door.

He swept the floor

With surging eyes and pulsing feet:

The sneering ghost danced in retreat

And dwindled in the scary space.

“Damned be his race!”

Bob whispered and turned back to stare

In joy and fear at all the glare

Of thousand shapes upon his desk.



The framed smile of Mr. Ford

Assured him he possessed that board

Of thousand shapes! Now due for rest,

He swayed one foot upon the floor

And jerking one upon his desk,

Bob Wrench of Eastern Illinois

Destroyed his piece of Arabesque!



“There’s nothing like the color of the night:

You wear it at midday, the blazing sun

Can only stare at its integrity.

So trust the falling dark and closer hide

Your tantrums in its layers and in me.

These layers are not mine but also yours

And his and hers whose wakeful eyes

Tell tales forbidden (though most natural)

To ears untuned to joyful sounds -- like Mom’s.

I pity her. She’s too much in the light.

She can’t enjoy what we’re enjoying now.

A spinster in the soul, she’s never hugged

Her image in the mirror or caressed

Her skin to blazing as some women do

Tempted by secret voices of the night.

Nor has she ever loved a man. Her man

Was father of her children, not the man

Whose passion clicked an echo in her own.

You won’t believe it, but for years on end

My father was denied his right to joy.

His bed deserted, he deserted both

His children and his wife and flew away

as far as wing and wind could carry him.

He’s now a happy stranger in Quebec,

Or in a ghastly city like Detroit,

The one with million factories and smoke

Haunting the streets eternal as a curse.

He could be anywhere. I’m telling you

All this to make a point. We’re luckier

Than either of my parents. Don’t you see

Why we should wear the color of the night?”

 from “Event Against Eventuality




“It’s useless to pretend we cannot see

The other pointed edge, the sharper one,

Of that same weapon we’ve been fighting with

Our endless battles – for we always learn

All weapons are a spindle, one, the same,

That wears the mask of multiplicity

Perhaps to please the eyes perhaps to blind

The hearts of different men of different wills.



It’s useless to pretend we can’t foresee

Our actions’ counter-actions: now and here

Are always then and there, and then and there

Are always now and here: the pendulum

Foretells its falling motion as its sails

To touch the highest point of its own curve.”

 from “Event Against Eventuality






Two oars the hoopoe does possess:

Sea-water blueness is its sea,

Not sea-water itself;

And the wave, chasing another wave:

The longing of the morning breeze,

The fluttering of light;

And the hoopoe’s absence all night long

Has upset the sultan of all things:

Of earth, of what grazes the earth, of what soars in the sky.


Fevered Solomon flared up;

His lips obeyed:

“Beyond my eye-sight and for the whole night

The hoopoe has disappeared,

His night- journey unknown to me.

Unless he presents a palatable explanation for his absence,

With its own passion the hoopoe will be slashed.

And so will he.”





The wisest of all men had failed to grasp

The wisdom behind the hoopoe’s night-journey;

For the bird, more versed than man in matters of the Unknown,

Came back to him with the story of Balkis in Sabaa,

All swathed in her pride,

And brought him as well

A promise in the form of a wound

Dripping with something other than blood.





“Hoopoe! Go back to Balkis with the divine order

That she come to me in submission,

As willful as myself to the divine fate;

And with the threat that if she worships anything but Him,

I’ll assign the genies’ eyes to spy on her

And put her to the affliction of defeat.”





The night’s wings, the night’s veiled visions,

Were redolent with the hoopoe’s motion;

Inside Balkis, the holiest of wounds awoke,

Wounding her very sigh, her very aaaah:

“Soldiers! How do I protect myself against the wound?

How can I spare myself the harm,

Knowing for certain that the Unknown’s spears

Are moisted with the age-old dew of the Unknown?”





Thought twirled, and twirled his feet in the palace halls

As the genies were building for his eyes the magic they most desired

As the birds were chirping and the roses emitting their scents

As light, like a bunch of grapes, was deliciously dangling

As the palace mirrors were floating on flocks of water

Until Balkis stepped in, swathed in her nakedness,

A lily brushing against a lily deep in the water.

At that moment Solomon was wrapped with the fatal wound,

His eyes disrobed of their royal garments,

Praying in supplication,

They-- his eyes-- being his heart,

His heart-flutters on the mirror like streams of aaaah.

Balkis was the wound, and the kissing of the wound, its cure.





“Submit to the faith, Balkis, and be…”

“I’ll be, I’ll be

For the infatuated Solomon his home

Until my last day on this earth;

Now that I’m a believer I’ve come

To atone for the sins of my former years.

Take me by force

And in me find your consolation:

For your torturing me will perhaps be

The only act of absolution.

And as for the hoopoe, the messenger of light, reward it

With exactly what he has inspired:

Send him to the end of the world

To teach what he has taught and inspired,

For the hoopoe has surpassed all others in matters of the Unknown.”






Under the spell, Solomon’s voice is choking:

The voice of love a prayer.

The morning breeze is dampening, dampening

With the fleeting oar.

In the blue, the hoopoe stealthily takes off:

A beam of light through mist.







-     Existence strolled towards Nothingness; a woman reproached it.


-         Woman’s lavish nakedness is man’s lavish clothingness.


-         The lover’s sleeplessness is a woman who has lured dawn into missing its path.


-         Menstruation sets out as an anemone and ends as twilight.


-         Never have two things balanced with each other the way sin and forgiveness equilibrate in the wiggling of her buttocks.




-         Nothing strips a woman naked better than language, and nothing but language makes her best attire.


-     Women are the ambiguity of a language whose only eloquence is the

infatuating woman.


-         Women are bad dreams; only the infatuating woman is a vision.


-         Scarcely have I run into a woman with thighs brushing against each

other without my tongue being tied.





-         Metonymy was born when a woman disentangled her hair for a man

other than her husband.


-         Suggestiveness is a woman whose wavy dress

Breaks upon her body the way a sea-wave

Breaks unto itself

Neither reaching the shore

Nor restraining itself from moving forward.


-         The whirlwind is a woman whose body is exposed to the four winds.


-         Annihilation is a woman whose very presence obliterates all longing

for her presence.






-         Poetry is the woman who takes you before you take her.


-   The most beautiful of dresses -- like the most beautiful of poems -- is

the one that presents to your eyes the wholeness of the woman, thus

sparing you all the details.


-         Woman never puts on a dress except with the intention to fill man’s eyes with the possibility of her being undressed.


-         And man never clothes woman with a dress except to keep her

nakedness as a possibility, an obsession, to his eyes.





-  Should man suspect woman of wantonness, she would turn the earth into

hell ; but should his eyes be free of such a suspicion, she would turn into

hell both heaven and earth.


-  Accepting her wantonness as a matter of certainty is your only guarantee

for getting reconciled with your suspicions.


- Woman balances doubt with certainty…to stay in a state of oscillation;

man accepts doubt as his only certainty…to rest.





-         Freedom is a wanton woman:

She lures you into getting undressed

To generously clothe you with her own nakedness.


-         Always, always does woman burst out crying:

When in love with you, it’s in loving you that she cries;

When in love with another, it’s because you’re still around that she sheds her tears.





-         In her combat with you, woman has no better weapon than your eyes.


-         Two shores are her lips; and for each, her body does have a second



-         She who is gluttonous of eyes

Is sharpshooting in erotic love.


-         Only when she’s under a devil does woman hallucinate.







-         Woman’s foot is the threshold of man’s home.


-    Woman’s breath is an incantation for her lover against another

woman’s breath.


-         Woman’s mouth is the only wound that doesn’t heal.




-         Woman’s intention to be truthful

Is no match for her inclination to lie,

For the latter is more truthful than the sweetest poetry

The sweetest poetry being that which tells lies most.


-         Woman prefers to eternally suffer in taming her man than to

peacefully accept living with someone already tamed by another



-         Woman is eternally fond of taking, and when she gives, she

gives only one part of her in the hope of taking you as a whole.





-         What is the sinner to do with those hips that watch over his pain?


-    It’s for a good reason that a drinking woman has suggested to her

companion that sipping is more satisfying for the thirsty (than



-         Woman and alcohol are treated equally by law:

As evil in this world, as reward in the other.


-         The chat of a woman in love: two lips engaged in drinking





-         All lovers are beautiful; but much more beautiful are the beloved.


-    Woman is as certain of being the object of love

As is the tree so certain of the soil.

But as for herself being in love

Well, it’s just a minor fault of the Unknown.


-         Everlasting is the dialogue of her lips:

An on-going invitation is one;

A persistent apology, the other.





-         It’s to stay between two women that I was ever born:

One, who expelled me from paradise lost at the beginning of time;

And one, who’s waiting, at the other edge of eternity,

To receive me in promised Eden.

It’s to stay suffering between two women that I was ever born.



-         Blessed be he ! And away with him

Who has come and gone

Without his breath ever blending

With a waft of a woman’s breath

For nothingness alone has he chosen for his certainty

And for his eternal dwelling.





-         Senses are the mouths of obsessions.


-    Salt is a woman: A little bit of her is good for the taste;

Too much of her is agony for the knees.


-         Sweet potatoes: a breast-feeding woman’s breasts.


-         Winter-night is a woman licking up carob bean molasses.


-         Banana leaves dangling over a bunch of bananas:

Women hunched over their secret worries.


-         A wonderful thing is the bath of a lustful woman:

A thyme rubbing-sponge and a yellow water-melon bar of soap.





-         How tenacious woman’s memory is: she forgets everything

except herself.


-         Mirrors, for women, are chats about the eyes of their admirers.




-         The beautiful woman’s chastity is a debt usually paid off by the

unmarketability of the ugly.


-         Shyness in the beautiful is only piety; in the ugly, an admonition.


-         Love is the ablution of the soul.


-         Epidemic is one woman scattered into too many.





-         Virginity is femininity’s knight-- a knight to be knocked down only once by its first opponent.


-         Fears of the virgin are spices for the feast.


-         Virginity is a non-inheritable capital.





-         Misery is a woman whose life is filled with the hollowness of men.


-   Should pleasing her be your ultimate pleasure, woman would follow

you to the very end of the world.


-         A lover’s misery reaches its peak when his prowess fails to match his






-         Tell all lovers, on my behalf,

That the only certainty in love

Is a pulsating doubt :

Does woman unveil her intentions

Themselves being an aspect of the Unknown?


-          Away with the brightness and with the brightness- emitter !

For the sun that pours its light upon the moon

To show it as a moon,

Soon discovers how lovers turn away from him to her.




-         The rose on its stem is a nun

Who grows to supple contentment

Only by being amorously smelled.


-         He who picks the rose is the one who has already been picked by the



-         A trap set up for my soul are her eyelashes :

When they shut, they shut upon nothing but me

My heart softening as if by prayer.





-         Her walk is eloquence itself :

Her feet being brevity,

The lull of her arms, suggestiveness,

Her wiggling hips, indisputable persuasiveness.


-         The coarseness of oppression

And the opulence of justice –

These two make up the dialectic of her walk.




-         Tolerable pain is a woman in love only with your love for her.


-   Ultimate pain is a woman who leaves you dwelling in doubt as though

it were the only form of certainty.


-         How could my repentance be ever achieved if my very sin were to be

my own woman?




-         Woman has taught me that hell is the first gate to paradise.


-   Every woman is her lover’s ordeal.

And the ordeal of every paradise is a woman.


-         Woman’s happiness is never complete

Until other men’s mistresses envy her the lover she’s got

And until other women’s lovers envy her lover the mistress he’s got.




-         Woman alone

Does incarnate the dawn :

For in one hem of her dress does sleep the rear of the night

And in another hem does awake the forefront of the day.



the city that lost its temper


the story of randa




the skydust banned the brilliant moon

and died the sweeping honeysuckle

that once inhabited the space.

beirut in slumber

was dreaming that she once again

was cleaning all her marble bowls of fish --

wearing a pair of dainty slacks,

a black fur coat for winter nights,

a nothing two-piece suit for summer days.

the dreams were overlapping and beirut,

as though she dropped one bowl upon the floor,

startled and then

shrugged both her arms

and rubbed a trembling finger once, once more

between her tightened lips.


her sleeping mates were out flailing themselves

and could not be in time to grace her bed.

she dreamt her blood was drying up

her breasts gigantic nipples that burst out

with serpent-nails, with open sardin cans,

with hardened dust on sharpened pepsi bottles,

with mud and rust and squirming cellophane.

she felt a brutal pulse under the skin

shrugged both her arms and plunged her fingernails,

between one scream and scream, into the heart

of her astounded, though astounding, night.





the screams of prehistoric animals,

the piercing moaning of the pregnant cats,

the starving wind, wriggling its way

through those nightmares of bushes,

all, all was dying, so it seemed,

in the transparent jungle of her eyes

when, in a fraction of repose,

her trembling fingers died upon the glass.

“i still can’t see the point,

why should a woman

indulge in self-destruction to create

a dubious image of a happy crash?

why why should she extract herself

from her earth-bound existence?”

her voice came sailing

across the dreaming vibrations of candlelight.

she blinked. the night

gathered a flock of hazes round her eyes.

“i don’t believe in visions, but I love

those waves encroaching on the sleepless sand

and that that ancient mast

forever sailing in my glass,


but as i said

i don’t believe in visions any more.”

and all was born again

all born again

in the transparent jungle of her eyes:

the screams of prehistoric animals,

the piercing moaning of the pregnant cats,

the starving wind, wriggling its way

through those nightmares of bushes

to crush her bones.



7:00 pm


a slash of brownish look

surprised the white arrangements on the sweater

that hung

indifferent to the crowded room

from her exhausted shoulders.

hooked, the night

transformed: a brutal chestnut

and once again beirut was randa.


8:00 pm


a tray of eyes

the crowded room hung on the screen

to scan the slightest vibrations

between the stars

to jolt the boredom with the scars

that randa prayed would rake again

the skin of her cellophaned memory.




9:00 pm


‘ring ring’ the phone so whispered

and at once

the eyes got ears attentive to the sway

of some estranging voice that said it was

a twin of randa’s or perhaps

a second coming of some sort…

and in the trembling mirror of beirut

beirut was hounding her faces

an octopus of multiplicity.





my next-door neighbor had announced the news

that by that coffee-shop on hamra street

my hair-assembler

dresser as they say

had murdered all those mirrors in his shop

and painted all his walls with brown shoe-polish.

don’t ask me why dear mother

how could i

unravel such a riddle?

yes of course

i went and had what everyone was calling

a blind hair-cut.

you should have seen

that rush of ladies in their morning race

to try his latest hair-do.


he smiled at me and said my hair was long

needed a trim from here a trim from there.

i paid him no attention

for i swept

his shop with my news-hunting eyes

to place

even a trace of that that lovely mirror

that once had given glory to my hair.

‘your hair is done dear randa,’

swept his voice.

and out i danced excited.

on the street

i played like window-shopping

for you know

i need a mirror image of myself.

and there it was dear mother

there it was

my head a crownless king.

i swept the streets

and, mad with anger, flung myself upon

my giggling door.

why are your laughing mom?

for heaven’s sake don’t lie

i still can hear

your laughter half-suppressed.

what shall i do

when even you don’t sympathize with me?

what did you say?

you’ve had yourself the blind hair-cut?

oh no my lord

i’ll murder all my mirrors

oh i will

i cannot face my hounding nakedness.






the room was panic with the smoke.

she squeezed her cigarette between her lips

and pinned her eyes to photos of herself,

the ghosts ulterior motives of her soul.

no longer could she smile at her young image

that kept recruiting of herself

the swell she’d been in her school days.

her eyes grew deeper and impulsively

she swept her fingers through her hair

that was no longer there…





the pyramid of acetone

flung open as the pharaohess

announced her will to blast her fingernails

with that eternal curse of nakedness.

the brush went back and forth incessantly

upon the brilliant gondolas

with all that magical incense

the priests of egypt could invest.

the startled pharaohess,

stretching her fingers, could then see

the claws of some unheard-of animal

scratching the brilliant fingernails

on all those helpless photos by her side.





what cracked the sleep off randa’s eyes

the door-bell or the starving wind?

her finger exorcised the crouching dark

and gave an early morning to  the fly

that buzzed, self-conscious, round the shade.

she yawned but not without attentiveness:

the screeching fingers of her soul

suspended like a scorpion

with ripened images of cells

that would assuage his hunger for the flesh.

the screech continued.

randa flung herself

across the jungle of her room,

and everywhere was she for everywhere

the screech continued everlastingly.

‘my words are rusting on my lips

open your window please i need to speak.’

a human voice or her imaginings?

she could not tell but still

surrendered to the voice her trembling will.

and through the cracking windowpanes

a thread surprised her swinging eyes,

holding a slip of paper and a pebble.







it was not then the smell of earth

that lingered through her windowpanes:

the clouds had journeyed all their way

and tumbled over horizons

that never pined for rain.

it was the thread and pebble still

the slip of paper on  that sill

that pinned her eyes and will.

spellbound, she stretched

two fingers, robot-like, and shrugged

the paper open.

her pupils widened as she read:





‘time had a flat tire

and for the first time

his trip subsided into sweat

he plunged his surging wrath

into the center of his sultry skull

dug out a watermelon seed

gazed at it

and didn’t know what to do with it’


a vigil


while his forefinger peddling with the trigger

of his reposing rifle

both his knees

were swinging right and left in fainted rhythm

cuddling a tune as silent as the night

as far-fetched as his childhood memories.

a star above him winked

he dropped his eyes

upon his wrist and lapsed in peccant void…

‘it’s half-past two already,’

slouched his voice.

‘i’m twenty one by now, can that be true?’

the street before him burped

his fingers hopped

along the startled barrel of his gun.



* * *


nothing occurred.

the music in his mind

had mushroomed into branches of a tree

reflected in a pebbly running brook:

there and not there

both found and lost at once

elusive wink of blurred reality.

the branches then took bolder shape

grew hard and instantaneously

blossomed in red and white and blue.

a patio squirmed and prostrate fell

in front of walls that hug the space

and rolled up to produce a house …

the squeaking door surrendered to his eyes

a wrinkled face both smiling and upset…



* * *


the air grew thick and redolent

of stuffed green peppers cooked with cinnamon


* * *


and there she was again:

the garden paths

flowing with marveled colors on her sides

she, flirting with her years

a jasmine in each nostril

perfect attainment for her morning walk.


* * *


the night affirmed its full supremacy

blasted his mental gurgling with a grip

on his internal eye.

the sky


or perhaps the stars

were lost in self-immolation

so he thought

and twenty-one hot bullets licked the sky.



the sniper’s vision



the stars are joints

of some celestial beast

suspended in the space by gossamer.

when she awakes

and gouges out her head

they say the moon is born.

now it is born:

celestial time

for an eagle’s eye

to travel down the street

on  that shy thread of light.


our alley



over the claws of searching cats

cockroaches hop and slither

dance tiptoe

black rats have joined them in their feast

from garbage caves they tilt their heads

dilate their joyful eyes and rake

the humid air

and lick the blur

and tick the clock of peace on earth.


the teacher’s dilemma



midnight’s the edge of time

that peels my skin

and glues me to myself

the edge of time

when i crane inwardly

to see through ‘me’

and to deny:

my wholeness is a stranger to myself.


the candle’s out.

a swarming generation’s on the streets

and i, rope-walking, hold a pen

that draws one path

and wipes another out

in what might be a dubious charity.


divine and earthly gods

have vanished in the storm

and i, a blinded worm,

am asked to keep the norm.


mathematics is my subject

litigious is my mind

to what but my own logic

shall i refer the blind?


a modern elegy



that surging presence of her gentle walk

assuaged the snow and inadvertently

millions of sirens in a crazy dream

blasted unblasted everlastingly


testing the floor

her gentle feet lilacked the space:

ignition keys that brushed the brain of time

from which emerged a twinkling universe


instant betrayed an instant

time convulsed

with twenty years of wrinkles round her eyes:

a bullet and a skull

and fell

seasons of jasmine

an orchard  that once

had bridged those wiggling distances


the chewing-gum boy



the children look at me with searching eyes

their mamas play indifferent

while their hands

roll up the squeaking windows of their cars.

‘his chewing-gum, my children,

is dirty like his hands.’

and then it rains.

i and the children turn

our eyes in awkward shame

and count the drops of rain

and count them once again.


an urge



since you last tickled

my hurt-loving breasts,

my toes have nurtured blisters.

skin-sickness, like home-sickness,

is a shrug

the nervous system issues to propose

a new dimension to my hatching cells.





tonight my vocal system is alert

electrified with sharks

the revelation

down on the street is soundless

rows after rows of stone

the blocks

are silent seconds in the blur

time horizontal


my lips take off their corset

round and stretch

and bluster out a blade of diamond

the glass of windows yawns

and carelessly

goes back to sleep

row after row


why do their ghosts annihilate

all distance … force

a flagrant curfew?

are not the cries of infants at their birth

enough protest

against the brutal curfew of the skies

that sets apart forever man and god?


delirious ulysses



i thought we could thresh out our differences,

that, through those gnawing clouds above the bridge,

we could shake hands,

we could dilate the skies a crack

to ease the painful contractions

of the stuffed ears of rolling distances…


conglomerations of afflicted selves,

inosculating swingers, ever wet,

self-chasing, ratchet-like…

upon those waves i’ve dwelled

for even you would faint to guess how long,

for long enough to swear the broken gates

are still unbroken.


i plucked my teeth in raging faith

that they would grow anew

and have been waiting ever since,

my breath a snake,

a rotting rope,

a pain an unripened virgin

would suck both in and out

when dionysus cuts himself in joy…


not till my years of yearning

had told a dubious tale

could i revel in sailing

the vast cubicle …


light-bugs they are, light-bugs will always be

those hide-and-seek disturbances;

stick where you wish your shapeless face

i’m getting used to distances…



( a phoenician legend )




(Long ago, the Phonecian citizens of Sidon set the city on fire in defiance of

the Persian army then besieging their city.)


The king’s garden:

Lilies and roses,

Yellow saffron,

Red flowers,

Sweet basil and noble laurel…

And the king’s absence.


King Tennes! Oh king Tennes!

Where have you disappeared, King Tennes?

Have your steps traces evaporated?

Have you dissolved in the dusk?

Have you dug a hole in the water and moved, boat-like, through it?

Or have you fallen asleep inside a white bubble

Feeling unattainable

Inaccessible to horror or combat?

Where have you hidden, King Tennes?

Have your steps traces evaporated?

Have you dissolved in the dusk?


The roses and the sweet basil

The tactful lilies

The noble laurel and the saffron

The Arabian jasmine in full blossom –

All all the plants that colour the garden

Are the city’s lasses, full-bosomed,

Dreaming of happiness,

Drunk with the longings of their youth.


Like the morning are their faces

Their lips, the wine,

On their bosoms, the apples

Divulge their secrets.


The touch of silk are their arms,

Succulent in the heat and in the shade,

The ether’s slippery space;

When lulled back and forth

A swing redolent of incense,

The fan of salvation as well as of torture,

Of the cold as well as of the heat –

The touch of silk are their arms.


Their walk is the throbbing of sentimental thought

Their paces the flying sparks

From a firebrand sparkling with light;

Their walk again

Is the bride’s dazzling appearance to her bride-groom,

The quivering of wine-glasses

In the head of the bride

Who one time is moderate

In handling her veil and her wrapping clothes

And one time walks in a drunken manner.

The young ladies’ walk is both the wine and the wine-dealer.


Jasmine, their breath

The fragrance and the snare.

The soul and the senses

Are stealthily robbed of themselves,

And in compliance with the jasmine’s will,

Doubt is violated by certainty.





(The music now invokes fear and anxiety.)


The King has perhaps fled in the dark

Wrapped in his terrible secret

In the hope that his dubious departure

Wouldn’t be detected by the star

That watches over Sidon from sunset

Till the cock announces the end of stillness.

Sidon! Oh Sidon!



Perhaps he was determined to flee

From the first day of the siege

Despite the fact that the Persians were alarmed

At the sight of the city’s fortifications,

Their pride provoked by the women screaming:

“Let oppression be gone!

Away, away from the fence whose pillars are the will of men

The boys’ and the childrens’ fondness of heroic stories

Told to them and to their ancestors before them

By the city’s schools and institutes,

Stories about heroism, simultaneously daring and sad.”



From the very beginning of the siege

He was perhaps bent upon fleeing.

And flee did he

Wrapped in the darkness of a night

Whose stars were absent

Oblivious of the immune city wall-fences.

Determined perhaps was he

To flee

That very night.





(The music gradually shifts to an enthusiastic tune).


We, the brown young Sidonians, protest

Against seeing our city drown into a state of confusion

Whether during the king’s absence or upon his death.

True kings we are in the time of war,

Swords that spread their flames over the battlefield

Whenever the Persian warriors try us with their uproar.

We are the judgment, the peace, and the ultimate horror.

This is both God’s will and the people’s resolution.





(The music now is of a fast beat.)


Artahshashta! Artahshashta!

Besiege our city for as long as you wish,

Surrender we will not.

You’ve only deceived your soldiers

With the delusions of victory,

With dreams you did compose for them.

Besiege our city for as long as you wish

From us you’ll reap nothing but death

Away with you! Away with you,Artahshashta!






( The music is now redolent of admonition and of sad, suppressed anger.)


In the time of great danger you left us,Tennes, oh Tennes!

With not even a little hint as to your whereabouts,

Just gone, traceless.

Tennes! Oh Tennes! Were you truly brought up

In the gardens and orchards of Sidon?

Or were you the child of the ever-migrating gypsies

To slip, as you did, into the wind’s unexplored territories

While the night had not yet yielded to the morning light

As is the habit of gypsies

In time of settling down and in travel time?


Tennes! Oh Tennes! What have you done to your people:

To mothers of incomparable patience?

To girls of immaculate purity?

What have you done to the still-breastfeeding-children

Wrapped in their weakness

Their eyes bright with hope

Their lips immersed in their gentle smiles?

What have you done to the dream

Blossoming in the garden’s flowers,

The roses, the Arabian Jasmines, the lilies, and the sweet basil?

You have surely deserted the dream

Taking advantage of its unmindfulness

Surrendering it to great anxiety

Uprooting it from the blessedness of the womb

Hushing to stillness all tender feelings of love

Bringing about the death of the whole garden.






( The music is symphonic now, evoking the spaciousness of time and place as well as the drama of the four seasons, burdened with the monotony of

eternal repetitiveness.)


Summer, autumn, spring, and winter,

Morning, red noon, and evening,

Darkness, fog, and light,

Fire, soil, water, and air,

Death and life,

Joy mixed with crying –

All existence is a state of everlasting renewal

Season dragging another season

Each fixed in the constancy of its attributes

The green leaves of yesterday

Today are yellow and withering

July’s lazy breeze, February’s blowing wind

And the smooth wave

Finally provoked by the high wind—

All seasons, all have been the lot of Sidon

The seasons of life as well as those of death

But never had they effected any change

In the will and determination of men, women, or children,

For all of them were armed, all well-trained in the art of combat

Even before the beginning of the siege

Even before the skies were terrified by the Persian warriors’ cries of war.





( The admonitory accent of the tune is dramatically sharpened to invoke a

sense of open, direct accusation.)


Your running away is high treason

So do not tell me that in the dissolution of your conscience

There lies your skin’s salvation

From the sparks and stings of fire!

The rule of a kingdom has never been

A matter of leisurely relaxation for the kings.

You turned into a murderer, Tennes,

By committing an act of treason,

That of abandoning the garden’s dream

Along with the sweet and tender feelings of the dreamers.

Yes, you just turned into a murderer

When from their aromatic drunkenness

Our people awoke

With fear being the last of their dreams,

Despair, the bitterest of all their truths.






( Music now is a celebration of the fire motif which purges and prepares for

the moment of rebirth.)


Fire obliterates renown as well as memory

Purges the heart of its highly alerted throbbings

Defends it against fear and meekness

And with fire renews its former pulsation.

For from its very redness

Does fire generate the leafy green vegetation,

And with the blades of grass, spear-like,

The anemone glowing around them,

Does it emblaze the way

For the procession of the souls

As they transfer victory

From heart to hand and then to the other hand.

Fire obliterates renown, Oh Tennes!

Burns it until yesterday is yesterday no more,

Expels it out of the realm of time

So that its ashes and oblivion are one and the same.

Fire stones patience,

Conquers the conqueror,

Obliterates – when it wishes – renown and memory

Or recreates – if so it wills –

A green renown for the hero

Who draws up a sword of fire and of light,

One whose heart is not captive to fear and abandonment,

Whose feet slide not into the path of the run-aways.

Fire, Tennes, is God-like:

It takes away life and gives it back.





( The drums declare war now.)


The drum! Dum dum, da dum! Dum dum, da dum!

Screaming and barking, thunder is the drum,

Knocking that leaves the earth convulsing

And the plants tasting a sense of bereavement,

Knocking like wild pulsation in a dinosaur’s chest

Or like stoning rocks

The thrower-of-stones being a strained feverish devil.

Indeed is the thrower-of-stones a devil

Indeed are the people victims of the stones.

The drum- beats are the sound-siege

Of a wall-fence indifferent to an imminent onslaught.

The night is gone and gone is the day,

Blackened with the oppressive beats of the drum,

Beats like a heavy rain,

Like a violent throbbing of the heart.

The drum! Dum dum da dum! Dum dum da dum!

Screaming and barking, thunder is the drum!

And there rises the smoke

And circles around the wall-fence: layers of clouds.

And the rose-lasses,

The Arabian jasmine-noble laurel-lilies-lasses

Are now a great burden.

Conquered by fever is the heart; thought, feeble and ill;

Our city’s youth, a blend of anger and sullenness.

In the people’s minds the story grows into a legend:

That the Persian warriors’ wooden ladders

Will soon be laid against the topmost edge of the wall-fence :

To make of the fence itself an illusion of a fence

To render defenseless all defenses

To let the certainty of victory be disturbed by doubt and despair

To declare that the time of freedom

Has made way for the age of oppression,

While the black smoke endlessly hovering around

The topmost edge of the wall-fence.





(The enthusiasm of the resistance-movement warriors, mingled with

sorrowful undulations of the wind, breaks out in a valiant freshness.)


We, the brown young men, are blazing with anger,

Our patience-embers being our own triumph,

Pre-written in heaven for our tormented generation,

Our suppressed silence but a mask for our uproaring flames,

Silence our speechless fire,

Our wordless contention,

Wordless quarrel

With the probability of death

For our youngsters, elders, and wives,

For everyone we love and everyone who loves us,

The probable death of all

Which might render the coffin too small

For those who’ve been for us the gentle breeze,

The milk and dates of life,

The dream’s free space.

Our patience-embers are our triumph over nothingness.

Woe to the daring besiegers of our city

Who look with eyes and hearts that do not see

Anger, feverish, boiling in our breasts!

Woe to the daring besiegers!

For their only triumph will be over emptiness

The emptiness they’ll inevitably have to taste.




( Music now whispers secret movements and gestures, one following

another…and finally exposes the Persian warriors’ defeat.)


In the dawn’s mist, itself a perplexing enigma,

The ladders shed their sleepiness and rise in the air

Their wooden blackness clutching at the wall-fence.

The ladders rise and float like lines or threads

Unravelled from the coal-colored hems of the night.

Breath by breath whispers float up, up

Firebrand by firebrand the eyes’ gleams float up, up

Float up, up, also the youthful arms, rhythmically,

And the mist gets saturated with the probability of a scream,

Of vehement uproar.


At the moment dawn begins to break,

Wing flutters to wing

Wind calls out for wind:

“Let’s turn around, let’s slide down and set the city on fire,

Let’s carry out the daring and sad will

To save the captivated city from this siege.”



Ablaze were the time and the place,

Ablaze were the eyes,

Heated with the redness of the anemone were the tears.

Fire was dancing its own dance

Accompanied by clouds of smoke.

The Persian warriors cried out: “Defeat! Oh defeat!

Woe to such an end as has been kept for us by the Unknown!”

The leader roared: “The path to glory

Has been blockaded by the fire;

The cunning Sidonians have concluded the war

Before we have managed to really begin it;

The only glory today is the glory of the fire!”



( The last tune celebrates the Sidonian warriors’ identification with



Our dance…the crackling of firebrands,

Our songs…shafts of light purifying time and place

Of things that were about to be

Of all remembrance of things past.


In the humiliation of running away

You’ve been life-hunter, Tennes,

A hunter of defamed plunder.

Tennes! Oh Tennes! In your hunt for defeat

You’ve allied yourself with the Persians.

All paths are barren, and so are all paces and all strides

So long as you are captive to fear and to a broken will.


Within us, Sidon has been ablaze, oh Tennes.

The might-have-been humiliation was suffocated with the smoke

Before what had been feared could have ever come to be.

Transformed was Sidon into light

When our souls went ablaze

Emblazoning the very tongues of fire.

Our souls are the tongues of fire.

Our souls are the tongues of fire.








How dare you stare

And then dare lie

That she is not a butterfly

When shades and shapes inside her room

Assume the spring that they assume

And whisper as she passes by ?


Her naked feet ! Her naked walk !

And there you’re trembling with each beat.

Hold, hold the dream and let your hands

Caress the tulip of her feet.


A trip of magic is her waist

Arrested wink of ecstasy

A timeless call, but as she strolls

A smoothly swirling gull I see.






The morning, straggling with humidity,

Dragged men and women

With their dangling shoulders

From street to pavement, into grocery shops,

Into misty places

Huskily blurred

With misty breaths and misty faces

Until all, there, all disappeared

Leaving me with a rubbery remembrance,

A molasses-like indolence

As sticky as a chewing gum,

Spat on the pavement by a careless mouth,

Sticks to my shoe in humid stubbornness.


Out of no place

So suddenly

Into the bookshop strolled a gentle face

Out of no place,

A suppleness of a wavy smile

That waved away the morning fogginess

The sluggish, morbid senselessness

Of the hanging, dangling humidity,

A smile of pure delight

For sooner than I thought, the light

Wangled its way

Out of the misty shadows

Of the morning that was just

Another kind of a ghastly night.

Purer than light

A smile of pure delight.




like jungle hounds

the ancient waves

push and howl their way

inside those undulations

of the skin


the river banks

close hard upon each other

and gasp         a spear of lightning

your lips surrender

two slices


sweet       ripe


and once again is born

another jungle    .


wind and shudder


the forest leaves of my body

have learned to shudder

in your mouth.

You are the wind

that shakes my wilderness

into its lasting form and color.


haunting promises


like luscious wine


desired for its haunting promises


like ripe


though perennially budding




your breasts lurk


behind your secretive shirt


two sweet disturbing dawns    .



your little feet



cleanliness of the heart always begins with the feet.

and your precious little ones

have recently strayed

in the obscurity of mud.



spare them the tricks of their old trip.


they are fit to tread

the purple longings of my finger-tips.


keep them roses for my eyes

kisses for my mouth.


primal fears




when death proposes an alternative

for what I know of you


my night

a serpents’s skin




with hisses


through and through


the fractured caves


of primal fears


turning and turning into waves


of howling colors


the calendar of ageless years     .





Her gently parting lips the beat

Her smile the rhyme

She’s song and dance

And both in her transcend all time.


She comes and goes

No, no, she flows

Her pace upon the ground unfelt

Her motion to the place a test

A challenge to the chasing eye


A breath

A sigh

“Hello!”, so fast, so fast “Goodbye!”:

An ever-fleeting butterfly.


She doesn’t need a poet to recite

Her beauty to the world

To you and me.

Nature’s the poet, she’s the poetry.





At the boy on the left

I wink

To the boy on the right

I raise my glass and drink

And everyone in a while

To the boy in front

I smile.


I have my reasons

For being all first-rated

For being self-appointed

The girl for all all seasons

And I have my reasons.


It is high treason

Not to believe what I believe

To contradict what I have chosen

For you and me

And all the rest

For always always I’m the best

And you are too perplexed to contradict.


I am the girl for all all seasons

And I have my reasons.






He looks at me with saddened eyes

And then he smiles.

The rest is silence for a while

And for a while

Postponed the glimpse of paradise


Why doesn’t he

Say it to me

That my complexion is for him

The sweetest, tenderest melodie

Of all he’s known of poesie,

Why doesn’t he ?


Why doesn’t he

By name call me?

Why doesn’t he say anything

Like “Haifa, rose from Baalabeck

You’ve left me just a mental wreck !”

Why doesn’t he

Say it to me ?


I know, I know, he wouldn’t dare

To whisper or declare

His admiration once for me

Or once his care

For I’m the student, bud and fair,

And, well, he is the professeur,

Detached, aloof, so so unfair.




I look around and see them all

I fall in love with neither body nor soul.

Why do I look and see

All those inviting faces that make me

Neither so joyful nor so unhappy ?


They leave me just the same

As I have always been

Tranquil … the heart, and senseless … the body

Neither so happy nor so unhappy.


If once ennui spiritual

Has anything ever to tell

And just in simple words to spell

Then it is that ennui is hell

Ennui is hell.





She once made me an apple-pie

And baked it on the sly

In her young sister’s old pyrex.

It was perhaps a sign of love

Perhaps a trick familiar to her sex.


She must have baked the pie so well

Until it rose and rose until

The crusty swell

Became a hill

Rounded and soft and full

Of apple-jelly-jell.


Though time has passed

And passed so fast

I still love her as much as I

Did love her breast-like apple-pie.





Some say that love is war

Or maybe more


Some claim it’s just desire

That weaves our shirts of flame:

Some kind of fire


And others do insist it’s all a crime

Though clothed in colors

So mundane or so sublime


A riddle love has always been

No matter how the human mind

Lucid and keen.






Daemona’s eyes, Daemona’s face

Her smile, her pace

Her gestures as she speaks or walks

A grace, a grace.


Sweeter than wine

Though rooted in the soil, divine

A pure delight

Her presence to the grazing sight.


Daemona’s dearest voice

So smooth, so bright,

Is always right

Is always right.


Daemooonaaaaaa !





Ankeedo set his eyes on Greta’s thighs

As she was trying from the lake to rise:

A Venus surging from her shell

A blend of Eden and of Hell.

“The prize ! The prize !”

He screamed in joyful terror

And like thunder

He started hurling rocks

Right, left, and center.


Poor Ankeedo! Poor Ankeedo!

Passion, burning, furious, lavish.

Poor Ankeedo!


Then Greta twirled and sensed his lust.

She spoke, defiant, breast to breast

A nudist turning moralist:

“I am opposed to all free love

I’m but a sweet sweet little dove. ”

He twisted right, he twisted left

And round and round he ran so fast

In search of her love-passion nest

But on her face she wore a frown:

Her frosty-spirited chastity belt.


Poor Ankeedo! Poor Ankeedo!

Passion burning, furious, lavish.

Poor Ankeedo!


feminine fingers


your fingers

wild roses

joy candies

or else




to plunder

to bless



no softer

or tenderer

or gentler



your fingers

wild roses

joy candies

or else


her dancing feet






her feet.





their beat.


step … circle

slow … hurtle

how fertile

the floor


in curving

and swerving

and starving

for more.


time timeless


all distance …

the glare

of motionless motion

that silence can’t bear.





greenhouses greenhouses

in bunches and patches

in bundles and circles

in all kinds of dances


puff puff puff

the sliding

fluff fluff fluff

the gliding


the twirling

and swirling

are all all green dances

greenhouses greenhouses





I’m eating like a pig

And dancing like a bear

And sharing every swig

With women here and there.


My head is round and full

Of watermelon seeds

It never itches for the grain

For nothing else it needs.


The future’s for the masses

Young men be they or lasses

But triumph absolute will be

For all the graceful asses.






It was more than the music and the wine,

More than your feet could whisper to the floor,

More than your voice, pale as the dawn, could do

To my vibrating soul. It wasn’t you

Alone, or me alone, that did it all.

It must have been all these and something more

That made the night long linger by my door.




Don’t ask me what I think of fate

It’s fate all right to see

That in this war I think of you

And that you think of me.

A wish-fulfillment on my part

Or just a melody ?


Don’t ask me what I think of God

It’s God all right I see

Who gave me eyes and gave you what

Makes dreams reality.

A wish fulfillment on my part

Or just a melody ?




Why did your lips burst out with laughter then

If not with vague intention to perform

And form a tulip shade ? My memory,

Deflowered by its own resistance, surged

With tulip gardens. Shades were shades no more.

They were all dancers, real in their own right,

Led by your mouth, lead-dancer of the night.





You are the darkest power of them all

The civil wars in books and on the streets,

The serpents writhing in those fighting souls

That keep our history chronicles alive

With gaping wounds. You are much worse.

For blood is not the language of the war

Which once declared goes undeclared for evermore.


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