Poetry by Mohammed Safi. My embalmed body lies near the laboratory of battle. My soul is excused as it turns the pages of the ledger of pains above a cloud I named the sweetest of endings. Every spring has come forward; it is the time of departure. The prayer has scattered: rise to your precious quarry. My sorrow for the two hands that have stamped upon our walls the seal of blood, and summoned from every sinner a sin, and hidden themselves behind the mask. Tell the seas to come forward so they may wash the face of morning from the smoke. Half the map is buying summits of illusions from the market of cowards. O death, come, make ready to sharpen your stubborn iron claw: there are those who speak with a curse the language of paradise. How shall the doves carry the memory while the fang of lies grips the air? And if between my valleys one of the two dams should quarrel, the wind smeared with blood scatters, as though it were a swoon above the thrones, bidding farewell to dreams and to the branch embroidered with dust. Is there any answer now, O slain of beauty? This is the world in which a thousand Pharaohs still dig for a question. The question came answering that very question. So now come out and face my puppet: I knew you by the fable of your face imprisoned behind a fable. So uncover your eyes, O spring of sins, for the earth has been kissed by weakness, and the night embraced by drowsiness, and the eye shackled by blindness. The roses of night have withered. How much blood have they drunk, my companions? O dwellers of the dark, we have come after you with silence in our pains, so that you may accept us in harmony. Do not close the spring of peace. The eye of faith has wept behind the mirage, and our choice is to go on toying with our sorrow. Woe to the clear proof that darkness has hidden, and whose groans have surrendered beneath the rubble. Stop the play-acting: enough of your jesting.<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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