The kid living deeply
The smiling despite his hunger
The ever dreamer
Despite the drought surprises us with novelties
And he can stun us with the naval scene
The apprehension of words at his lips
His trundling to the reach
His hand fiddling in us without fear
The cry of discovery
The finger of caves
The imperfect verbs
Conjugation of the regular and irregular
The loving kid
We load him with the unbearable
The very close to God
The transparent
The capable of reaching her house, and entering
Making love to her
The standing firmly at her, entertaining her
Relying on her dream, lipping her.
The sitting above
Leaning and observing us
The vulgarity of our deeds
Our daring
Our fictitious shyness
Our weeping
Our fear
O, this kid
How you desecrate us
And you abound and we don’t get bored
And what you draw of the shadows of paths
Enjoying without interest
It’s like this all the paths
Ever free
Preparing our journey
All the beginnings are puzzling
The question of the end
My scattered parts
On the bed
On the table
In hundreds of papers
The letters of the flying letters
The questioning
The opening
The imploring
The very late
And the remained
The residing in my pencils
And the new that I will write to
The departing, the forgetful
And those that remember my letters, and the remembered
My six letters
The slapper
The rumbling fiercely in my chest
The capable of conquering me with her eyes
My hand loses all the prison’s bets
Thus, I don’t untie the observation
I shatter
I wake up, the sea saltiness gathers me
Blessed “Seid Al-Sha’ab”
If you gather me to you
There is a thing that was
And the dream was
O, “Labead” that gathered us,
And crushed us in the first verse,
What if poetry was without verse?
And was unrhymed
Deeply dark
I swear that I love it unrhymed
Like this,
Your sleepy face receives me,
And a kiss in honour of “Nizar”.
What if poetry has verse?
The smell of olives is real
The fragrance of picked apricots
How we sought
And pictured the scene in all the streets
It knew us
Invading me before the friends
We begin
And the tale doesn’t end,
We go back, walking
The last crowd of night
,
,
Going back victorious.
O, this kid
O, living closer,
And closer I am
The road isn’t long
I repeat the same tale
And begin: O, this kid.
_______
* Ramez Enwesri: (b. 1972): Libyan poet, and critic, has several published collections of poetry, and essays on modern Libyan literature. Also know for his renowned cultural website (Balad Al Tieob) which is dedicated to modern Libyan literature.
* To read the original poem in Arabic click here.
