Arabia (Painless Poem)

I wrote you a brief and painless poem,

a shortest rapture;

wounds, however, shine to me

like scimitars in the Sun, like shining swords

emblazoned with the blood of gods,

the sacrilege of refuse,

blasphemous pain. 

 

In the desert, we take long strides

as parched marauders to'ard

the blazing Sun; and 'on arrival,

'on arrival, thence

do we depart

from gods alone,

our feet, our eyes,

our loneliness amended

only in the psalm

of a sweltering Hebrew nightfall,

the ascension of the dusk—

at last, at last

we find in our chests

the bulbous heart

they point to in those Books. 

 

It is frigid when the Stars

open themselves to us

and weep their Songs:

dejection, hearthrob, ecstasy;

this order to their Universe. 

And we gaze all along

on their theatrics,

as though it were a fiction,

when the both of us, we both know it's true:

we, both of us, believe—

whether we do declare or no,

we believe in the Stars.

08/27/2016

Westville, Durban

after Hidalgo

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Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2018

atazargarof@gmail.com

BC, Canada