An Attempt to Celebrate


Adeeb Kamal Ad-Deen





Celebrating myself,

I have put my blood in my glass

From which I made the orchestra

Of my letters and dots.


May I try dance?

Yes, I will get my letters ready

For a ballet of my red and white cells.


May I try death?

Yes, I will get my letter to be a green coffin

Borne by the bearded old men

To put in the marble palace.

I will be with them,

Around them, awaiting them.



May I try the tale?

Yes, but a tale without a beginning

Is only a myth.

And a myth without an end

Is only a superstition.

A superstition without a hope

Is only icons drop broken upon the heads.


May I try pennilessness?

May I sell my boyhood?

Yes, I have done.

And who bought it?

The slain Euphrates.

May I sell my love?

I have done.

And who bought it?

The women whose (Lo) is missing (ve),

Or whose (ve) is missing (Lo)

May I sell pleasure?

I have done.

And who bought it?

The toothless time.

May I sell night?

I have done.

And who bought it?

The frightened morning.


Celebrating my blood,

Being happy with it,

I have crowned it as a king of words,

A sultan of letters,

And an emperor of dots.

I granted him great feathered dreams,

Peacocks, and mythical orders nobody got before.

And when everything got perfectly ready

Except the music of greatest happiness,

I shot my blood.

When my blood twisted in its blood

And started to draw the thread of blood

Very painfully,

The horrible scene astonished me

So I laughed, laughed,


And died!



( T p )


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