In the coma of the awakening

As the last lemon in winter time As the last batch of the old light 

Coming like a flock of wishes 

From the wavering of the far twilight 

And from a star which has vanished 

Drowning day after day 

In a whirlwind of nothingness 


Millions of dark years 

Stumble in the space 

And the silence drinks its screams

Then they go on as muted snakes

Which dive in pond of mud 

In search of another Gilgamesh

My tent is woven from the fiber of a blue dream 

It is tightened by the ropes of long questions 

It is extended behind the nature

Where the hours are flat and free

Where the minutes are repeated

Like sparrows of an ancient town 

Where the seconds are the crowd of African ants 

Upon the dead memories 

The glass of the whore windows 

It’s no longer a whore in transferring images 

And the mirror swallows half of faces

And half of truths

It absorbs the colors from things… 

Sea is not able to carry even a baby ship 

And all the lips are oleander

I am above this world snapping pictures 

I do what the satellites do 

In transporting distances and shortening the time 

I am afraid that the footage will become one day the price of truth.


Ahmed Zaidan


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