c p aboobacker
ezhuth/dec.2009
motherland
When the poet says to me
that we can speak about birds
I become restless
Because I suspect whether it is not our own epic bird
When my spouse says to me
That we can sing about limits
I am aware of a dervish who lost his tongue and land
Twirling and twirling and dancing
And saw a world without frontiers.
The stormy petrels harp that
The alleys would include the west bank
Those who lost shelters
Got dressed and wore their ornaments
When the poet says to me
that we can speak about birds
I become restless
Because I suspect whether it is not our own epic bird
When my spouse says to me
That we can sing about limits
I am aware of a dervish who lost his tongue and land
Twirling and twirling and dancing
And saw a world without frontiers.
The stormy petrels harp that
The alleys would include the west bank
Those who lost shelters
Got dressed and wore their ornaments
Might get ready for their last journey
The children who ask where their birth land is
Would be taken to their schools
And served sweets
And called "darlings"
Then they would be shot on their chests
Without surprise or fear
They would fall dead calling their moms
The children who ask where their birth land is
Would be taken to their schools
And served sweets
And called "darlings"
Then they would be shot on their chests
Without surprise or fear
They would fall dead calling their moms
In the end they would all be stamped terrorists.
Falcons and foxes would eat a tasty meat.
Intoxicated Singing
Falcons and foxes would eat a tasty meat.
Intoxicated Singing
Intoxicated with the spirit of poetry
I sang in the dialects of hamlets,
Pasted with cow dung
And decorated with straw
A ruffian among the crowd
Often speaking things unheard
To laymen and folks
I sang in the dialects of hamlets
I was singing things not known to me
Sacrifice, struggles, and martyrdom
I wanted to demolish the church
To make a new one, and
I would make it from the ruins of the old one
But I would run my sermons in the old one
I would cut the plantain trunk
And plant the leafy part
And I would sing about my leaves
Flying in breeze
MY spouse is away
In her comely attire
Of love and affection
In the paradise of life
I wish to sit singing
Lonely in the valley
With a reverberating note
To please her round the clock
But my singing always betrays me
It sings of lives gone
Into the fathoms
Where martyrs live
And paradise
Where songs are made
Trees without leaves
Embrace me in harmonious horror
Into their bony branches
Screeching in silent tones
Rains fail mankind
Into an infernal battle of life
And bleed the emotions
Into fluid maggots
Merci… merci… plead the buns
We can’t enter the juicy dirt
Of human mouths in the battle field
Merci… merci…
And I am intoxicated with the spirit of poetry!
