يطير في سماء أيام زائدة،
أتأبط خساراتي وأبحر
ومثل سفينة جانحة في مرفأ
أسند على حائط.
WE THE MORTALS
Away from what you leave behind
a five year old Amine in Guatemala
a tormented gaze in Ras Beirut
or bulging eyes missing the ceiling
eyelashes napping for eternity
your destiny awaits you.
Grief for the ones who cared
decomposition for your filaments
calcium your only index.
SHAMSUDDIN OF THE ULTRAVIOLET
Mohammad Shamsuddin left the blue planet
after he played Death for a long time,
thinking he’d fooled it for years.
At the demise of every year,
he would stall Azriel
with offerings cut off his living flesh.
Back in the day,
three princes of the word
Mohammad Choukri, Charles Bukowski and Marc-Edouard Nabe
graced your show on three separate occasions.
Before a live audience, along with mediocrities
you collectively scorned and bullied Choukri,
whose magnificent retaliation framed your pettiness in a flash.
You disdained and pushed Bukowski out of your set
for legendarily being himself: a celestial drunk.
And with the help of half-witted guests you demonized the young and fresh Nabe
for being brilliantly talented, sharp-tongued, with tons of integrity.