It Is There… Only There Poem by Muhammad Hesham

Not only hands
Words fail the poet too.
From the hidden depths of the soul
Words for the soul-mate are to be squeezed out.

It is there… only there
Where the known and the unknown discover their limits,
Where the possible and the impossible admit they do not have much choice,
Where the earthy and the spiritual recognize their common plight,
Where yesterday and tomorrow cannot conceal their envy.

It is there
Where all wade into a battle
That incessantly leaves each with a glimmer of hope
On the brink of death.
How to find a word in the rubbles there
Without wounding the soul?

And where else to find words
That best suit the soul… and the soul-mate?
Common words are for the common.
Is there a word somewhere for a restless soul?

Dead words are never buried.
They are the daily bread for a dying world.
Let the dead live on dead words.

But the poet is always there
Giving life to the dead and the living.
The poet’s eyes are sagacious, yet frugal.
They dig deep into masses of words,
Looking for the one that no one else would see.

The poet’s words also have their share of suffering:
They live in a language without being totally of it.
Though impatient for words
The soul-mate is never content with what the poet puts on paper.

Aspiring to the endless, the unusual, the incomparable:
A real miraculous poem!
That is why the poet goes on writing.
That is why the soul goes on bleeding.