PALE BEGINNINGS

For whom are the flowers picked? And for whom are the candles lit? The waves destroyed every butterfly that melts in its nostalgia for the charming sunset breezes. The roads are flimsy, they turn without turning back. My fingers and my calls are not enough to find my starting points. My beginnings are pale, their winter clothes have been drained and my fingers evaporated; the woodcutters toppled it like twigs hiding among its leaves every civilization I don't tell its great secrets. Nature is adept at unleashing every possible story and every pigeon whispering in my ear tells me about that flood that stole the birds' nests, leaving only my dark skin, and a magic chariot towards being lost. Though the frogs are pure, and though their croaks color my evening cheeks, I do not find my ears eager for their great singing. I will fall into the well, because its paintings are devoid of fish and pearls. Yes, pearls are the message of every death and rape of the Gulf. He sleeps hungry on his golden berth where those swamps stretching like virgins in the middle of noon on my back, those hands with very long fingers, they pluck me like autumn leaves so affectionately. Hurry, smile, o icy capitals. The night walks on two arms of asphalt, and I am those ancient stones in the womb of the earth, satiating its bushes with every bitter cough. My teeth are a painting of beauty, and my fallen lips in the oasis of longing are the story of an old man who passed through my village one day. Come near, come near, o swaying waves, o utter chants, o body parts that I know, here I am stopping like death. My capitals are devoured by locusts, and my mouth melts every strange boat. Hurry, Hurry, smile, O freedom; for the noon has ended every bush that stands still on its branches and sings the swaying waves, so I go out in autumn like rough cracks on the hands of the peasants.