next
 
 
 

A Truce
At its
peak,
war leaves the battle-front, wipes
with oblivion its own eyes, passes by the hairdresser’s,
hurls down the world from the tenth floor,
to be free for the evening show

For sure
the land will offer
new dead people as sacrifice,
processions of the blind,
and more medals.

At its
peak, I will weave other battle-fronts,
straw leaders, trenches and taverns,
wine-blood, and letter processions


And in the well of oblivion I bury
names not meant for oblivion, a perplexed woman,
hearts that didn’t stop at my port, eyes
that didn’t keep watch over me,
paradises I never inhabited.

I have
time for grief
And time for love

And I trust
my fits of sorrow to the womb of amazement.
Did the child know
that I would lead him into a dark tunnel and weave
from his shadow a king that will feed on lovely grief?
Did I know that vertigo will hurl me
far away from the palm-tree of oblivion,
and that I will force my crimes
onto heaven?

This
war toppled down the towers of Babel
The mills of Aden, the voices of Rimbaud, the majestic silence of Hawi.
This war exhausted me, I will stop it
for a little while till the battle-front cools down
or the cloud of questions
takes shape on my shoulders

This
war might come to an end. But not
my obsession which flows from the turmoil that renders
names,
things,
and lovely passion to fragments

my eyes
will only ever
leave her lips
to inhabit her eyes

I mean
the most gorgeous female
not the war of oblivion