October 2011
Strangers
by Huda Ablan
1.
No one belongs to the path
except a pocket
stuffed with the leaves of the night.
It keeps steps in stock
from a shop at the crossroads of the will,
patched with the skin of an old dream.
When yawning,
it invites them to a dance
with few feet and much madness.
When hungry,
it devours their warm, ripe whispers.
When thirsty,
it drinks their cries washed with holy water.
When lonely,
it forsakes its lenght and shrinks
to a remote corner of the heart
leafing through pictures of those
who have passed away
ensnaring with their song…
It will cast glances,
and tremble with the silence.
2.
No one belongs to the rose
except its melting
in the hand of a sad lover
who plucks it from slumber
every morning
and plants it in the vase of a tear
overflowing with pain.
He teaches how love sings
and how to breathe the secret
hiding behind the eyes
so it may reveal itself
No one belongs to the heart.
Immersed in opening its chambers–
Shut tight with red forgetfulness–
It stirs the beats of a love
over which a curtain has been drawn
for a thousand nights,
and shakes a cup of blood
freezing as it faces circulation.
It alone
stabs the rug of a wound
made ready for crying
and prays
There is no one in the house
is dozing cracks obscure
the rounded journey of a small sun.
In the enclosure of the spirit
its walls bend in the face
of blows from the winds.
Its warmth ages and shrinks
in the coldness of waiting.
With the eyes of the absent
it soaks up warm places that flow
at the very edge of the passage
and melts in the shudder
of an endless beckoning.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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