Blesok no. 30, January-February, 2003

The Face

Sargon Boulus

This Road Alone

This road alone was left before me.
It is a forest or a tale; dirigibles land on the roofs as
    the village removes its plague-stricken dead in
    wooden carts that rumble away under the cover
    of night. While the master shoemaker sleeps
    fitfully, the dwarfs get busy making his shoes.
    The desert stretches full-length in my dreams,
    studded with dangers and cautionary tales.

It is a twofold message, part headed in a different
    direction: one disappears like a squirrel into the
    kingdom of flora inside of my head, the other awaits
    me like a sentry in front of my door.

And there, in the all-night cafeteria where
    immigrants hide their broken teeth in their
    sleeves, like a drop of ink that travels from iris to
    iris, the message lets me know the secret at last;
    the empty glass on the table prays for some wine.
    Eyes gaze into the distance, while Billie Holiday
    sings from the core of her black agony: I SLAVED
    FOR YOU…

And the earth floats among the planets.

The Face

On the bridge
that spans the white
Montmartre cemetery
buried with all
its dead
beneath the snow,
that face
as it went by:
a woman who wept
and bit her nails
walking aimless,
oblivious of the wind
that hiked her skirt
above her knees,
of pedestrians
and cars, from that
moment on has been
haunting your eyes -
whenever you cross
a bridge, you can
almost see it
going by.

A song for the one who will walk
to the end of the century

If you happen to stroll
this evening
  where there is
     hardly anyone else
you will hear the wind
blow savage from
     the direction
       of slaughter, hot
like the breath of a furnace:
it will flap yesterday's
     newspaper between
your feet, and make it kiss
the cooling asphalt
     or slap the walls.

Where you stroll
  this evening
     the wind will sweep
yesterday's paper away
and fire will rage
  inside and out, in
     many spots of our world

It will devour people and buildings
but somehow never burn down the walls.

Annotiations of a Traveller

When I became aware
of death, regaining its purity from a fountain
of people from here, somnambulistically following their roads

it seemed to me
that dreams of mine were pyramids of sands
running out before my eyes

and I saw
my day running away against the current
away from that cursed place of a town.

It is the beginning that we choose
but you, the end, you are selecting us
and there is no way but the road.

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