An attempt at the Question

Adeeb Kamal Ad-Deen




On the flame of a candle

I want to get the pyramids of my sadness.

On the flame of a tear

I want to get my youth’s ash burnt.

On the flame of a bullet

I want to either start or finish

My blood’s symphony.


Time dropped,

Dropped from my head to my foot,

So I died.

Its drop was so roaring

It woke me up from my sleep

So I laughed.


Death was at the door.

Death was the only friend who deeply remembered me

Without stopping to send me

Its black flowers by  registered mail.


The winter got lost in rain and mud.

When I sent the summer

To search for it,

The summer did not return.

It was said that summer

Became busy with the spring’s nakedness.


It was said that time

Had neither winter, summer,

Nor spring of nakedness.

Time is just towns in the shape of lighted graves

And a nice light, illuminating the travelers’ corpses.


Time... it is me.

Time... it is you.

You who had no train,

And I who had neither station nor railways.


From your blood, I borrowed my death

And wrote the novel of my letter

And translated the defeats of my dot

Into seventy live and dead languages.


I was surrounded by winter

And its lies and drizzles.

So I tried to surround it by my letters,

But I burned and drowned.



You are a lie,

And I am the line

You put your lie on.

You are confession,

And I am an accused one

Who assuredly confessed to his thousand crimes.

Then slept as an innocent child.



You, who are you?

And where is your dot?

Is it up where the sun drops foolishly?

Or is it down

Where the sun is to be stolen by the immoral godless?



You, who are you?

You are a perfect murder

Lacking  nothing but a bullet

And a murderer’s quiet smile.


You are a perfect murder

Lacking  nothing but me.


You are an invitation to lust

I am frightened to write

Because my alphabet is heavenly

And my moony pen is full of secrets.


You are a coup de grace

Forgotten by the hangman

Who slept on the swing

Leaving his victim to moan

Through the glass of pomegranate.


You are music running away

To the depth of rains

So as to sleep.


You are a body  which lost its dot

And tried to kill me in the passage.


You are a myth walking on feet.


You are my nakedness

That I tried to postpone

But I could not.


You are a myth I made

From nothingness,

From availlessness,

From meaninglessness,

From steadylessness.

When I became penniless

I sold nothingness for my childhood,

And availlessness for my boyhood,

And meaninglessness for my lust,

And steadylessness for my corpse.

But instead of becoming delighted

My myth shot me!

( T p) 

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