from Seven Birds
Mohammed Bennis
lantern
underneath the veil rests a head
lap of the air—the earth
a bulge rises from the chest
two hands dispel the poisons of the night
pain
two feet pressed one
against the other
distancing themselves from the noise that still corrupts the place
soon they will carry the corpse
to the place where the prayers for the dead
repeat
to the cemetery
in a corner of rushed graves
there
as it is lowered into nothingness
everything makes audible repeating strokes
even silence
a woman
facing her death
sways the lantern
disappearance
the first step begins where you are now
full of doubt you constantly stare
a dizziness
in time you will seek out its source
words are your nourishment
this road you only see as darkness
within darkness
a friend was here then disappeared
not every goodbye can be goodbye
a hand
between the rocks points out the road
within the road
a blue hand
it is the one
that branched out of your roots
a sound that flows through
a rocky surface that speaks
the chant is not over
yet
a desert approaches with the road towards you
a desert of words
a storm
gathers in the shape of a person you thought
resembled you
but the chant grows louder
out of a hand searching for you amongst the birds
a blue hand in
your hand
the language of the road
underneath the veil rests a head
lap of the air—the earth
a bulge rises from the chest
two hands dispel the poisons of the night
pain
two feet pressed one
against the other
distancing themselves from the noise that still corrupts the place
soon they will carry the corpse
to the place where the prayers for the dead
repeat
to the cemetery
in a corner of rushed graves
there
as it is lowered into nothingness
everything makes audible repeating strokes
even silence
a woman
facing her death
sways the lantern
disappearance
the first step begins where you are now
full of doubt you constantly stare
a dizziness
in time you will seek out its source
words are your nourishment
this road you only see as darkness
within darkness
a friend was here then disappeared
not every goodbye can be goodbye
a hand
between the rocks points out the road
within the road
a blue hand
it is the one
that branched out of your roots
a sound that flows through
a rocky surface that speaks
the chant is not over
yet
a desert approaches with the road towards you
a desert of words
a storm
gathers in the shape of a person you thought
resembled you
but the chant grows louder
out of a hand searching for you amongst the birds
a blue hand in
your hand
the language of the road
translated from the Arabic by Nashwa Gowanlock