I have a surplus of loneliness
And a self-sufficient supply of memories
I’ve got consumed emotions
and a step to stumble...
I’m fine...
There’s no reason to deny my happiness.
I shut the fridge door tight
And inside I’ve kept some very cheerful songs.
And the absent ones I have painted their faces
with new features.
It’s hard to keep the images as we took them.
The sounds as you listened to them
The air as you first breathed it.
I have a very demanding job
Due to widespread unemployment...
To work as an unemployed
requires a lot of experience,
reading mountains of worn-out books.
And waking up late to sit alone
behind closed doors.
I’m doing well...
Trying to maintain a recurring dream.
And give the windows a little bit of comfort
and more air.
I’m looking for a cure for the stiffness of the walls
I want it to be more flexible.
I’m fine
Tonight, I wandered alone
without trying paper boats
to reach an island in the Nile.
Or to wait for a bus on a public holiday
I didn’t meet dead people in a discotheque.
I sang in front of a deaf tree
out of fear for my throat.
I’m fine.
I know the boredom of the seats
their desire to get rid of the sitters.
And escape the nails.
I left my hand under the water pine.
My head in the barbershop.
And my feet in the middle of the road.
I am much better
I offer my second-hand things for sale
I have a lot of defeats
and foolishness.
And I have raw ideas
suits gossip sessions.
Taste quietly and be sure I’m okay.
I’m fine.
My death is a rumour
Even if I’m hanging from a tree.
Or a speeding train passed over my body.
I’m fine...
I was chased by security forces.
And they fired torrents of bullets
at my head.
I jumped to the bottom of the river.
I’m fine...
Don’t believe the lie of my suicide.
– or my mysterious meeting with a girl
who died in a road accident.
And dancing with her in the cold season.
And leave my coffin away.
I’m here singing with Abdel Wahab:
”I love to see you every day”
Not suffering from severe depression
Or visual hallucinations
And my absence is just a game.
Why does he think about the fate of a tree,
Asks about the purpose of bridges.
And tests the sidewalks
As a perfect vagabond?
He chases a statue off its pedestal.
And submits his image to a mural of graffiti.
He doesn’t trust a gas bomb that landed in his shirt pocket
or a bullet that went off twice.
His bets are ruined
And the revolution needs experience that he does not have.
Oh, Sheikh:
I am not your follower.
Your rosary does not bleed more than tainted blood.
I said to him when water dripped from its beads
And he asked for ten pounds to eat
With a sharp look, he was searching for another passerby.
Oh, woman:
I don’t have a place.
And the dark street is no place for a relationship.
I didn’t realise... She was probably cursing me.
Oh, thief:
You’re pathetic.
How do you steal from someone
who hasn’t earned a single dirham?
Oh, policeman:
I forgot my ID at home.
It’s only a couple of days away at the most.
And I have a familiar face that you always find in the obituaries.
Yes, I am an expert on queues
I’ve stood in different queues
Only once did I reach the service counter.
It was a dispensary for treating the dead.
The doctor refused to let me into his refrigerator
crowded with friends and traitors.
My mouth is rusty.
My teeth are made of wood.
I have a valid licence
to produce perfectly meaningful sentences
suitable for crossing
pedestrian spaces.
And able to apologise
to someone whose shadow I stepped on
and emphasise respect for order
cheering for a football team.
I don’t regret anything that happened
I don’t care about anything.
And my dreams are ordinary
Only death can enter it
My father skilfully opens its door
and walks away alone.
I will come back from another way.
From a market chewed up by thieves and fools.
And buy inferior goods
To resemble the pavement eaters.
I remember I’ve been fooled so many times
And I don’t regret my lost teeth.
I’m coming...
On the right is the window of a mausoleum
I’m not asleep under its dome.
And dogs whimpering nearby.
I know I’ve walked here before
The streets are like their inhabitants, the shops are a stain...
The policeman is not the right enemy
Time is not a destination.
Sorry...
I’m two days late, no more.
And the food you’re making now for the fourth day
is exhausting to prepare.
I will surprise you with an unexpected arrival
I’ll come in through the window
or through a door peephole.
I try to listen to a song you like
I tell you what happened over two months of absence
I put kisses on your hands.
You know I’m a loser.
I don’t know how to tell lies.
I hide a wound growing in my lungs
and continue laughing with the skill of an old clown
who lost his head in a bad bet.
Only to get it back because of its expiration date.
I will look for birds you raise on the roof.
And a tree I planted in a big barrel.
And savour a basil leaf
that my father used to put in a pot on the stairs.
And go back to fighting with my brothers
for no reason other than my immense love and confusion.
Osama Al-Haddad is a poet and writer from Egypt.
