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  • صورة الكاتبملاك الراشد

Via Dolorosa

Angels or demons?

Demons— must it be

Had a place in my head

They build it;

Stone by stone

To atone—they said.

Far behind the prayers and the olive trees

Hidden in burdens and tears.

There—

The House of the Madness they called it.

I look upon its hideous wall: a mural for the sick

Not a foothold.

Not a prayer.

Voices I hear, crumbles at the wall

(Silence the mad, only then you will be glad—

Climb the path of sorrows by morrow)

My flesh is weak, I pray

My head’s a wreck, I say

Lunatics and mad broke the wall

Spirit-wolf—I clamber.

Out of the shadow of trees

Head out of east.

Thrown, a hundred,

Stoned, a hundred more.

Engulfed in mires,

Skin burned of fires.

A crown of thrones

For the times I have been thrown.

A top of mud! A top of mud!

At last!

Mother, Goddess,

Out of your womb, pure pearls of water drops,

I saw light.

Let me see darkness again. I pray.

For they are killing me—

Feeding me galls for my hunger;

And acid for my thirst

A first, a second and a third—

I prayed while they mocked me.

I am among the mad—

Mad.

A kiss of a disciple:

I’m bound. Carried above the house of the mad.

They sat a fire

A mirage is all I see—

Voices of those before I

Stood before my eye:

I saw the victims, the poor, the sad ones

All—before I.

Mother, Goddess,

Save me.

Flames are coming up to my chest

I hear thy voice not

Only the mad.

The mad and the lunatics.

Where are thou?

Mother,

Hadn’t thy breast suckled me,

Darkness and empty I would’ve been—

Hadn’t thy hands carried me,

A part of the earth I would’ve been.

Mother of Goddess,

Let it end. Burry me in mud and ashes.

A mirage is all I see—

Then comes the darkness of the whiteness.

Not a foothold, not a soul.

Doves’ voices erasing the mad’s chaos,

Water washing my burns, my sins

I never dreamt that I could dream

A washed body towards the stream

It is the final sphere

I am. I am.

Anew. Complete. Ready—

To sin again.

Alone in the white, doves and swans

I came before I was due;

I swam not in the stream for I was sinking.

Swans swimming, birds signing.

I flew. Out. Under.

Third day after the rise,

I still hear the voices of the victims, the poor, the sad ones and mine.

Only now I know;

How to mute my abandoned echoes.

Swans swam, doves molted me feathers

It’s all been forgiven:

Not a sound, not a whisper

Writing the madness is how I whimper.

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