Your Back, Their Chest

I can see those frail eyes
Tortured from the corners
And fragmented at center by the dreams
Intercepted intermittently by reality.

democracyAnd I see the back bearing the
Countless Signatures of democracy.
The map of artwork of nationalistic
Glory. The wounds are the spokesperson
of the informed society.

Life is cruel Life is cruel
Then what is death?
Death is emancipatory, Death
Liberates us from the misery
Life is cruel, Death is merciful

What is more acidic in a free world
is to talk about freedom, and the choice
For oppressed is to choose between
Mourning and Dying

Hua al Baaqi, Hua ash Shafi
Hua al Baaqi, Hua ash Shafi
echoing at the corner of bloody street
Weary man wrapped in old blanket
Eating and counting. Eating and counting
‘You are the beggar’ No, I am not
I am the author. I am finishing my book
‘what is that, Mr.Author’
The book of Dead.

‘when are you completing it’
when your flag will loose all it’s color
and the coffins will no more be required
Hua al Baaqi, Hua ash Shafi
Hua al Baaqi, Hua ash Shafi

Every desire is made of stone
I throw on you to make you aware
What I desire.


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