البوهيمي

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وِلد كبقية الأطفال؛
لم تشرق الشمس من مغربها حين وِلد و لا اهتزت الجبال
خرج لهذه الحياة من رِحم صحراء قاحلة
—لا نبات فيها و لا ماء
صحراءً عِشقت السراب و شِربت الموتَ اقداحًا حتى الإغماء
وِلد كبقية الأطفال؛
ورِثَ جسدًا يسجن روحه و ملامح أموات
أخُتير له اسم و هوية و كُبل ببضع أغلال
غلًا التف حول رقبته ليخنقه
و غلًا حول يديه يجتره أينما ذهب

وِلد كبقية الأطفال؛
رتلوا في اذنه اليمنى الأذان
و صبوا فوقه الماء ليتوب
رغم أنه بعدًا لم يذنب
وِلد— كبقية السجناء؛
خُدر وريده و خُيطَ فِمه و صُمت اذنيه
!—قتلهُ الجبناء
و هو بعدًا لم يكن

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The Seventh Room

Mary Magdalene in the Cave

‘The ending is water’
Whispered a crow
As I step slow—Out, out of the asylum
My body, which isn’t mine, dragged all way
Needles falling on the grey floor,
Some I took off—
Others were inserted for too long
Hideous as a monster,
The survivor of the one thousand years bloodshed
Finally managed an escape, with a book and papers’ shreds
At the end of the aisle of patients’ beds,
I know there is a staircase leading to an exit
I ran downward.

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Via Dolorosa

Via DolorosaAngels or demons
Demons, must it be
Had a place in my head
They build it;
Stone by stone
To atone—they said.
Far behind the prayers and the olive trees
Hidden in burdens and tears.
There—
The House of the Madness they called it.

I look upon its hideous wall: a mural for the sick
Not a foothold.
Not a prayer.
Voices I hear, crumbles at the wall
(Silence the mad, only then you will be glad—
Climb the path of sorrows by morrow)

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