Adeeb Kamal Ad-Deen

An Attempt At Eulogy - Poem by Adeeb Kamal Ad-Deen

At forty years old
In the fortieth year
I sat at the door of a dream.
The dream was as lean as a lost date
As good as Bedouin fire.
The playing cards were showing its picture
With or without a crown
In a formal uniform or with ‘iqal* on head.
I became aware of its silence.
I wept for its pearly tenderness.
At the fortieth shout
I said:
Dream, whose picture is shown by the playing cards
On the right and the left
On the left and the right,
How much we have missed your kindness.
How much we have missed your riding
The horses and the evenings
Asking after us we the undated letters
And the futureless dots
And the meaningless future
And the meaning that leads us ferociously
To the death arena.
On the fortieth night
My shout fell down.
So I collected its fragmented glass with my wounded tongue.
The shout was drawn by freedom.
The shout was childish like water.
I said:
You, whose thin picture is shown by time cards
Up and down
Down and up,
How do I deplore your royal forehead?
I who made the tragedy by my blood
And by the flight from the fake lion that ate my liver.
In the fortieth treasure
The suns shrank and everything vanished.
The river Tigris was not drawn with ink
Nor with blood
Nor with anything
As if Tigris had never existed.
I wondered at my cowardliness
And at the confusion of my tales.
But your treasure - treasure of history - is more wonderful
And your tale - tale of the depressed - is more complete.
At the fortieth stab
I sat near your tree: the fig tree and said:
Tree of the one whose picture is shown by trees
Time and again,
I am now near you in the capitals of hunger.
I pray God to make you fruitful
So that I may be satiated
And to supply you with water
So that I may satisfy my thirst
And to invoke you to write
So that I may write my song for the dream
Whose picture is shown by dust
As good as a lost date
As lean as a Bedouin fire.
At the fortieth door
The dream had no interest in my shouts and death rattles
Nor in my nudity and loss.
The dream was over there…
Without his queens
Without his butlers and retinue
Without his guards, throne and gold
Without any of those who carry out his orders.
The dream was over there …
Lying dead
Like a letter falling out of a dumb mouth
Like a love date torn by knives
Like a good fire which dogs made water on.

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, September 5, 2013

Poem Edited: Thursday, September 5, 2013

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