Along the road to an old city, within the wrinkles of mountains hanged by their heads, spiders are still spreading their webs at caves' doors.
by Fareed Ghanem
Tales come out off embers, waiting for those who pass by. Canes which are forgetful of their green ancestors are cast on shoulders. Boys just perfected the ‘k' letter go out loitering at pavements stretching from babyhood to school desks. Men go out to war, which kills but not killed, and come back faceless. Women bathe in honeyed mirrors, by bees armed with hormones.
But inside, in the caves' bellies, time quits; centuries elapse in one gleam between two blinks; history of life and death is written in one lacking line. Flock of bats hatch nightmares, dropping from ceilings, in tone with echoes of armies' boots. A new light trembles over pure threads, whereat death dresses absolute white in a camouflage theater. Things lose their features at the collision of white with black, while colorful wishes climb up on stairs of frustration.
Yet, the old city still changes its roads, its people, flowers, voice, takes off its serpent skin, so only stones stay there, silently bleeding out their dust.
And now, three hundred years according to Gregorian calendar, three hundred and nine years according to Islamic calendar, at a time when the sun goes on walking around boredom circle, when water continues to distribute itself in unfair shares, on clouds, wells and herbs, the cave sleepers stand on their pierced feet, continue circulating in front of dead mirrors at the wall face, and ascend on rocks of colored desires, exactly here inside caves dug into their heads.
They walk round and round, deep inside their eye-holes, behind a door woven from pure threads made out of cold sweat and the foam of salt bubbling in their blood.