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
Ahmed Zaidan 