The Past of Meaning


Adeeb Kamal Ad-Deen




The past came at the white dawn

Wearing a soiled hat

And a black dress.

The past came to streets that it knows

As a woman knows her hoopoe

And the place in which she submitted nightingales to death.


The past behind the door, is it ?

Easy as the ladder

When a child attends so excited with death and oblivion?



The past is behind the door

While I am, for ages, wakeful as a broken clock

But the past dare not enter

And I dare not open the door for guests I do not know.



The past sat behind the door

It ate behind the door, slept and woke

At dawn, it thought of nothingness for long

It married and practiced its blue habit.



Behind me is the door, before me is the door.

Behind me is the sense, before me is the sense.



Through the hole in the door

I see him getting up from death

Walking to and fro,

To and fro and talking nonsense.

I arrest myself.



At a white dawn like a knife

I saw the soiled hat and the black dress.

I remembered I was behind the door for countless ages

As broken clocks I remained wakeful,

Catching the past with my palm

I stab him with the knife.

I choke him happily with death's breeze

Happily as the sunbeam

Happily with my moaning

Happily with the blackness of my blood.


( T M )



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