Myself

She reads my thoughts,
she knows my secrets,
and understands my states.
I trust her
and she trusts me,
I confide in her
and she confides in me.
She is my preferred friend,
my pampered love,
my venerable boss,
my companion
in my alienation,
my friend in my sorrows,
and the sharer
in my ecstasy,
She reads my thoughts
she knows my secrets,
and understands my states,
Because she is me…
**
Mother’s chanting

The eastern mother said:
Oh, my baby…
you have struggled to learn how to
speak,
you studied all the nights in learning.
When you master the knowledge
and reach the summit
your life will be nearing at its end.
All what you learned will go
to start a new eternal life,
only God knows where,
in this other place, you will use your
knowledge ?.
The children of the West often ask their
mothers why their fathers went overseas
to engage in wars outside their
countries. What is the purpose of being
killed or in causing the death of the
fathers and mothers of other children?
Their mothers answer:
My baby … do not ask
why they have left,
if they were given the choice,
they would not have gone,
but they are soldiers.
Their leader’s greed
extends beyond
their nation’s borders.
They do not care
if their armies return
or vanish over there.
The world has become a playground
for the ruler’s game:
people are just dirt
under their dirty feet.
My baby …
don’t be discouraged,
the world has a path to follow,
the earth has a course,
and we all sleep,
while God stays awake…
**
I heard him singing

Let me hold your hand
and walk you through the streets,
so that you may see things
that make you change your mind.
You might see, in the late hour at night,
an old man sitting alone in a café
to prove to himself that he is not alone.
You could see the philosopher
searching for his being,
finding it in unexpected places.
Maybe you’ll see a lunatic who has
escaped from the mental ward
because it is full of insane people.
Let’s roam the streets, so that
you may witness unfamiliar scenes.
You may see a wife waiting for her
husband who was sent to war,
praying for him to kill,
and not to be killed.
You may see a rich man
counting his monies,
and a poor man counting the drops
of sweat, his working hours,
waiting for payday.
You might see those who laugh
At their extreme misery,
and those who whine because
they are accustomed to an easy life.
You might see the honest thief,
and the thief who lost his dignity
when he steals.
You might see religious leaders,
Sowing hatred and division,
Instead of promoting
love and tolerance.
Let’s roam the streets together;
you may see unfamiliar scenes.
Let’s roam the streets,
so you might see farms vanished
because of extreme heat…
and seasonal produce
lost to the raging deluge.
May be you can see
the heads of colonizing countries
embarking on wars
in the name of democracy.
And you may recognize
the traditional housewife,
giving and giving
without seeking remuneration,
not even a slave’s wage,
or the vacation that all workers expect.
**
This land is not my land

In the woods studded
with flowers and scents,
under the sky of my new country,
I took a seat at the riverbank,
listening to the hum
of the waterfalls, interrupted only
by the croaking of frogs.
The distance in time shrivelled,
as I grew wings for my imagination
to fly to a forgotten world.
I erased all, but the rays of light
coming from the east, remained.
Over there,
in my village, in the South
my mother rested in her grave.
Over there was my playground,
and the beginning of my youth.
Memory is my constant companion.
It helps me to forget that
I am living in a strange land
and a foreign environment.
This land is not mine.
The air is not mine.
This country provided me
with comfort and security,
but it is not my land;
its people are not my people.
My land is on fire.
The place is an illusion,
and my father’s grave is obscured
by the mists of time and distance.
My home has crumbled to the blast of
the intruder’s bombs.
My thoroughbred filly has gone astray,
and so my gazelle…
But I do not know
What happened to the olive trees
that my father nursed
through the years…
Everything I cherished,
the green vines
with their golden grapes …
The threshing fields …
The flying doves …
The daisies …
The anemone and windflowers …
The corn fields …
My youth’s hideouts…
The places of warm intimacies…
The shadow of the carob trees,
and the figs coated
with the morning dew,
are now mere memories…
**
Turn the page