Al-Andalus Square ⁽¹⁾

I’m contradicting myself.

My proof leads me to ruin.

Yesterday,

when I uncovered my brother’s coffin,

I saw eternity:

a pack of banknote on a burnt face.

Have you seen eternity?

I saw a boat deceived in the storm.

I saw a forgotten fire blazing at the brink of dawn.

Have you seen the mother?

A cloak jolting ⁽²⁾, since dawn, for a blonde blood shedding on the doorstep.

Have you seen me guarding boxes of weapons without knowing why?

Have you seen Kawthar ⁽³⁾spill her beliefs on the sewing machine and scatter to tie her veil?

Have you seen Abdul Raheem ⁽⁴⁾?

A black fountain overflows in a white Quran.

This is our proof that led us to ruin.

This is our Grand Disappearance on whose interpretation we disagreed.

This is eternity:

We cram in a dumb zone and talk on resurrection,

on foggy gardens plowing ahead in the decoration of funerals,

on the mouth who is straying to say:

I am.

I am the triangular arrow which missed us all and settled in your bowels.

I am the ring ⁽⁵⁾ which slipped from your slim little finger.

I am a candlestick that is arguing about the power of darkness in you,

in your many holes.

And no one- under this swaying planet- will name you.

Nude and veiled,

as if a group of mad people moaning in your looted dresses.

As if the flavor of dawn stopped you and threw in your eaten hands its Dirhems, coined of gasp and bitter cold.

Be silent, then.

Let your noisy trumpets set their alarm in shadow,

where the vain winds are rolling the vain faces like a vain lamps lightens the passion of a blind.

Or,

like a lust we attain in a torn book and shiver for it forever and ever.

But you are the name and its opposite that heralds the oppressed clean body.

You are the miracle and its measures:

A mouth loaded with banknote.

You are the lock in my father’s door, distorting the sense of my meaning.

When Shimr Bin Thil Jawshan⁽⁶⁾ stretched his hands out of the aperture, clapping to the repentant, my father was busy with his hands that are crying and laughing, alternately , at Babel and tribes degenerating in books.

And in my name;

In the name of hard dispositions,

my wisdom retreated

and I end up with a sick proof and a peeling eloquence.

Here I am contradicting!

Here I am proceeding to you as a boat deceived in the storm.

Here is my tongue dragging its obsessions:

The tribes; unkempt, conflicting on a grain of barely, what’s their name?

The Grand Disappearance on its interpretation we disagreed, what’s its name?

What’s the name of gardens that are decorated, for your salvation and my own salvation, with horror?

What’s the name of the pigeon that keeps my eye till I grow up?

Till I be overjoyed with vanities and be buried with my names and no one will have an eye on me?

In my name,

in the name a poor lightning that throws its preaches on the sleepers,

I tried to resort to a final history briefing me,

to cram my life in a sole view.

I tried but I pick nothing but a familiar meaning:

A mysterious policeman yawning at Al-Andalus Square.

Should I tell him “my proof leads me to you”?

Should I ask him “Is this Uruk ⁽⁷⁾”^?

Is this the cow that guards the sky main street?

Is this the drunken lamp that refreshed Socrates’ heart and on which Alexander’s bowels moaned?

Is this eternity:

a pack of banknote on a burnt face?

Let’s supplicate;

to lift the cover from our faces and run, breathlessly, each to his own desert,

each to his decayed fountain.

Let’s supplicate.

But,

let’s salute this depression; our joy that prepared our bones to flee.

Let’s remember.

Let’s forget.

Let’s remember and forget.

Let’s bless this head raise out of the prison cell demanding its freedom:

I’m contradicting.

My proof leads me to ruin.

* This poem also has its contradiction in within because it is and nothingness are watered from the same spring.