The story will be told
On the highest deck -
in the lowest dump as well -
there's always a storyteller.
The story will be told.
Whose story: mine or yours?
Perhaps . . . his? No matter from whose
point of view, it will
be told: you, making up a story
full of gaps about me.
I, narrating your
Perhaps, he, the one ignorant
of all our days?
It will be told.
Even the language of metaphor
hoarded like pulp in a giant sponge,
even the secrets of the tribe
hidden in the moth-eaten saddlebags
of time, shall find a haven in words
with a slip from the storyteller's
tongue, a mere stroke of the pen.
So are the tales spun from nothing
for a world that is nothing in the end
but a tale paring its fingernails
like James Joyce's god,
waiting to be told.
it loses its shine
with the passage of days,
yet like a record
without a needle, it will recite
what details there are: those worthy
of being recited
to whoever has a pair of ears.
Translated by the author
Sargon Boulus's Other Poems
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