Hadi Atallah

Metaphysics, you see, brings bitter friends

The chorus of saints, prophets and sages break in

The mind probes the night

When senses go to the place by the side post

The place where Love is buried

Eyes open in the darkness

A touch of a foot on earth

Grounded and a brew of questions grow in

But the face is set

Little waves beat on the rumbling heart

The eyes soften

The guides against illness cozen the mind

At first, their silence and their own music

Beckons you a beggar in front of a church

Like a little boy begging for excitement and ecstasy

They have finally found the pearl

What a pity if it should destroy us all

…Now consider this and throw caution to the wind.

I was lucky that I revised the poison of the scorpion beforehand.

Paralysis

In a bottle of white powder, I find the answers

What time is it? I asked

His voice a music of sound and delight

Then I sighed inwardly and went to sleep

…All the rescues of questioning wrapped in soft piece of buckskin.

God’s love rebounds softly from the side of a golden tray. 

The tray may grow dark and dangerous. 

It’s worth the world if you knew Krav Maga. 

And I was helpless to protect myself. 

Then the man behind the desk said, “I’m a fool, I know but my offer stands. I still offer a decent pay for this golden tray.”

Every strange terrible mile was frightening. But I went with God.

It was shadowy and dreadful.

“I will fight this thing.”

“I will win over it.”

“I will have my chance.”

So carefully did I work, until I moved the golden tray into the fireplace.

The fire crackled and hissed. And its glow was dulled by their emotion.

There was no sense of preservation, until now.

But the tray had turned into silver, still cuts through this fool’s manness and save us all…

…This dark shiny fluid leaking is what’s left of the gold.

He was an animal now

For attacking, biting

Hiding and hunting

Living only to preserve himself

And his Family

…The wind screamed over and his eyes were white; his eyelids stitched with blood.

Suddenly she was afraid

She remembered the man

Lying dead in the bushes

With a gun in her hands

For sex was danger to her

…Her skirt all darkness, and her hands helpless among the neighbors.

Peace when kneeling at the high altar

Freedom when she was dressed in my jacket

Madness when I wrote my words on her pale skin

We die everyday

Almost everyday

Like Never Ever Land

La passion est l’esprit de la vie et la patience est la vie de l’esprit

We still remember

When the days are blind

And the time went by

So power should be given to purpose

We rebelled against the way things are

Now she’s tight over me as we struck the gate

…And then the priest said to her and I, God bless you, my children.