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  • صورة الكاتبملاك الراشد

The Passion of Ishtar


Of Ishtar and the transfiguration of Tiamat


Of a land between two rivers, sing I

I—The divine coronated of the eight stars

Etched by the men from Mars,

I—a star Venus

Alone I stood ahead of Cetus.

Carved in clays and stones,

For the sinuous serpent had me lacking bones.

In a chest of seashells

In Gold—

Gold and skin mold,

I stood.

My feet of stones shattered

Of the standoff, what mattered?

I wondered.

I am near collapsing.

In a cavity of stubborn seas,

Filthy fluids awaited the full moon,

In spite, I’m driven out of sight

In a room put.

I prayed for the eclipse of moon

Or at least the endless swoon.

Blood moon, blood moon

Not a blood womb.

Over and over until my voice shiver;

It’s not the time for my womb to quiver.

Reden lips, swollen hips

I am expanding to a fetish.

Dimming skies, awaiting crowd, and then;

Full moon.

Hips filled with sea drips;

It happened! I am Holy! A fertile field for the eunuchs!

Life has emerged in void;

Of noise and cries devoid.

Heretofore—

There were no livings. Only four.

A man of dust and ground,

Followed by a maid of stolen ribs and whispers sound

A serpent—

And the owner of the circus.

Daughters of the maid,

Breed the condemned deed

They poured out the dry deserts

And I have become the worshiped of the two rivers

For I am the source of the newborns

Cast in gold and head-horns.

Governed by the faithless livers

Worn in stars and rivers,

I am the atonement of the sinful;

I am the virgin gift of the pious.

I am what was, what is, and what will be.

I am all. I am all.

Look at me. Look deeply at me.

A depicted body of false imaginings.

A disease is what I witness;

Corpses humming words of sickness.

There I stood; as an answer to a false prayer

Clowning for the world’s players.

Despite all chaos and drums,

Still managing, still drums-numb

For I couldn’t run without having to run forever.

Thoughts on a whim?

Strip, whip.

Repeat.

Time of the chant comes,

“Oh blessed Goddess”

I hear in fear.

“You who did fashion us out of nothingness.

Oh Goddess, forgive our sins,

Lead us back naked skins

Return us whence we have fallen”

I lay my head into the deep sleep,

Just another hopeless sheep,

Not a Goddess. Not a fetish, just a creep.

During the deep sleep, my spirit leap

Out of rivers and the rubbish heap

I am ascended high above earth,

Seashells falling into pieces

Stones turning into bones

Clays washed to a skin—

It feels like I have never been.

I could feel. I could feel!

In the air, I could hear whispers

Moving perfectly on the breeze

Voices leading me into the stream

Milk cream— and an amnesia from the steam

So that after all of the sufferings,

I could feel no pain.

Heading to the stream,

Vision fading, body fainting;

My collapse has come.

A belly filled with Gods is leaving me trembling

Damn the moon!

Hideous fingers tearing the womb;

I shall abort!

Sheets filled with blood;

Hid the children in mud

Tearing the sheets, drowning the children in flood,

Now, I could see the stream drying;

A joke for a crying killer who is nearly dying.

In the dimming skies,

I watered the blood moon

Drips by drips,

Flowing down from my hips.

I prayed for the eclipse,

And an eclipse I have become.

A shadow behind—

A shadow of Jupiter.

Cold iron on my neck;

Must be a sword.

Slowly cutting throat;

For I have broken the oath;

Of earth and heaven both

It is the time of the slain.

Cold, cold iron ripping me into two;

Thighs, legs, feet

And an upper with a still heartbeat.

Of skies, my tears are the atoms,

I am the space of a wounded face.

Stars lit out of the stillbirth.

Of earth, I led to a firth;

I am the sea of what was once all I see

Gentle winds raising my waves,

Water struck, water washed,

I am the oceans and the narrow rivers,

That planted greens and heathers.

Pain washed with every tide

A myth—

That died.

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