I stop and look back;
I stoop into the abyss of my memory,
Out of boredom.
I repeat myself, in endless tautologies,
I talk, but am tired of hearing my voice.
And they rush onto me
In heaps of illusion
Of a semblance of a reality that was.
And they hurl onto me
Their perfumed corpses
And seduce me with my own name.
And I cry.
It is not me that cries,
For I, too, have died.
It is the memory of me.
© Copyright 2003 Obeida Sidani
1 comment:
Nice, ifti3aliyyé, overly complicated, theoretical and
studied.
Ton frère Ahmad
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