منذ البارحة غائب.
حاولت أن أسيح في الشارع كمطرٍ لا تحتاجه المدينة،
يغسل تفاهاتها ووجهها الكئيب.
حاولت أن أتفيء حكاية عابرة،
أتسلق ثرثرة نساء يتسوّقن على أنغام شكواهن من ضيق اليد.
أنظر إلى أنامل موشومة
لفتاةٍ يقيس لها الصائغ خاتماً ذهبياً
تشبّث بخنصرها.
كنت غائبا ً
في غيابي
كانت الوحدة مرتبكة تصرخ خائفة
كنت أجدني عندها كلما وجلت.
نويت أن أبتعد عنّي فلا أجدني أبداً.
لم يسألني أحد حين غبت،
لهذا مضيت أقتفي أثر السؤال.
في البراري دائماً ما أجدني مع الريح.
أصافح كل نسمة عابرة،
وأقابل شخصاً لا أعرفه متكئاً على قبره.
يفتل أصابعه النحيلة كمن يلف سيجارته،
يشعلها ولا دخان لها. ثم يبني من أضلاعه سلّماً،
ينزل ثم يصعد بساقٍ من رميم
يزرعها فلا تورق.
لا أدري لماذا يحتمل هذا البعد،
لكنني أعرف سبب وجوده وحيداً.
بعضه تساقط حين آل اليه جزع الليل
وبعضه الآخر راح يذرع متون الأودية
عله يعود
بشيء مما سلبه السيل،
ليجمع شتات بعضه
يكون خريطةً لهزائمه.
وكلما انتهى
شعر بنصرٍ خفيف
وانتصب كشبحٍ يفتح مسارب الوحشة.
كل يوم يفعل هذا.
وفي أغلب الأحيان لا أجده.
أتكيء على حجارته فلا أعود من غيابي.
11/6/2007
I’ve been gone since yesterday.
I tried to drift through the streets like rain the city doesn’t need,
washing off its small nonsense and its gloomy face. I tried to take shelter in some passing story,
climbing the chatter of women shopping,
their complaints about tight money playing in the background. I look at the tattooed fingers
of a girl at the jeweler’s, trying on a gold ring
that clings to her pinky. I was gone.
In my absence
loneliness got all confused, screaming, scared.
I used to find myself with her whenever I stepped in. I decided to get away from myself so I’d never find me again.
Nobody asked about me when I disappeared,
so I went off tracking the trace of that question. Out in the wild I always find myself with the wind.
I shake hands with every breeze that passes by,
and I run into some guy I don’t know leaning on his own grave.
He’s twisting his thin fingers like he’s rolling a cigarette,
lights it up… but there’s no smoke.
Then he builds a ladder out of his ribs,
climbs down, then up again on a leg made of old bones,
plants it in the ground… and nothing grows. I don’t know why he puts up with this distance,
but I know why he’s alone.
Part of him fell apart when the night’s fear settled on him,
and the other part went wandering the valley floors
hoping to bring back something the flood stole,
so he can gather his scattered pieces
and make a map of all his defeats. Every time he finishes,
he feels this light little victory
and stands up like a ghost opening paths into the emptiness. He does this every single day.
Most of the time I can’t find him.
I lean on his stones… and I don’t come back from my absence.
I tried to drift through the streets like rain the city doesn’t need,
washing off its small nonsense and its gloomy face. I tried to take shelter in some passing story,
climbing the chatter of women shopping,
their complaints about tight money playing in the background. I look at the tattooed fingers
of a girl at the jeweler’s, trying on a gold ring
that clings to her pinky. I was gone.
In my absence
loneliness got all confused, screaming, scared.
I used to find myself with her whenever I stepped in. I decided to get away from myself so I’d never find me again.
Nobody asked about me when I disappeared,
so I went off tracking the trace of that question. Out in the wild I always find myself with the wind.
I shake hands with every breeze that passes by,
and I run into some guy I don’t know leaning on his own grave.
He’s twisting his thin fingers like he’s rolling a cigarette,
lights it up… but there’s no smoke.
Then he builds a ladder out of his ribs,
climbs down, then up again on a leg made of old bones,
plants it in the ground… and nothing grows. I don’t know why he puts up with this distance,
but I know why he’s alone.
Part of him fell apart when the night’s fear settled on him,
and the other part went wandering the valley floors
hoping to bring back something the flood stole,
so he can gather his scattered pieces
and make a map of all his defeats. Every time he finishes,
he feels this light little victory
and stands up like a ghost opening paths into the emptiness. He does this every single day.
Most of the time I can’t find him.
I lean on his stones… and I don’t come back from my absence.
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