The morning and the wounds

A poem by the poet / Samir Attia

And when he read from the Book of Travel: It was stated in Bab al-Sin and the chapter of the Raa that the sun will be snatched and the clouds will be stolen, And the palm trees are sold and the Nile is rented, And he kept reading for us what hurts the heart And the path despairs for him, Until his words ascended to the letters And for that I met what I met from the dead, He said to the inkers: Do not despair and do not depend on a wound, He looked at the tombs and addressed them, and we marvel at what we see and hear: You have a date with death and we have a date with the morning.

And a poet passed by looking for words, Waqas choked by the Abras And a grieving dove And a worried girl, And he knocked his head in reverence, Then he called out to “hope”:

O people of lights, And O tribes of Sanaat, Come and spread in the door of the fiafi the longing of rhymes And sprinkle from the seeds of words what spikes germinate for him, And make in every sharp pulse of the dawn, And you and the daggers of treachery, they are poisoned, And they set out for the armies of the night, for they were defeated.

And they regained from its handcuffs the sun and the day, And perfume and airplanes, Restore to the universe its splendor, And love has its names, Then the morning begins, And heal the wounds, The neighing rises and the pulse is renewed in the palm veins.

Then he folded his book and went on, And lean on his staff in that space, As we look at the seeds of his words as they germinate in the path of his journey, And his chastity and pleasure.

And I was for the first time watching the ears of certainty coming out from between the bars, And rise despite the walls.

When my friend asked me about his name: I said maybe” morning” came to teach us how to make hope.