His story is a tale ...
He made a request
behind his heart
to take up his position as Director of Silencing Dreams.
Only after a thousand lives and nine months, exactly
He wants to do the opposite of his job.
And God does not share his kingdom with anyone.
And after I placed him in his grave
I became, in my sorrowful abode, like a woodlark.
I was proud of my victory.
But fearing that when He wills, He will resurrect him
I prepare to kill him again.
The taste of killing him in my mouth is sugar-coated.
I remained standing, feared by the goblins.
Standing recognisable in the dark nights.
He is buried
And I am in the shadows.
We are both inhabitants of the graveyard.
He dreams
– awake
of a bright future for a hundred million
and sleeps.
Provided that a hundred guards circle around his boudoir
to prevent his dreams from involuntarily leaking onto the floor of the map.
People don’t appreciate his effort in lighting the stage.
The animation.
And watching at the same time!
Who are the people?
– The president
Who’s the president?
– People exhale
On his holiday.
He sleeps in the altars of churches.
Candlesticks of hope.
And the niches of the souls
to testify to Allah of his diligence as he promised.
He says that for the sake of adoration ...
He runs in the veins of those who seek God.
He does not like his followers
And he promises people poverty.
Which is what he is capable of.
A bunch of spectators.
Hilarious in school uniforms.
If one of them lets off his mate’s hand,
The napkin sellers pass between them,
And party agents.
The queue might get lost from one of them.
Then some people say:
“Poor, this lost queue.”
And then these spectators do not materialise ...
But they become memories with sugary feet.
Whenever I say “revolution” in front of her,
It oozes red and sore.
Stop, O history, at their news, Majora.
Ahmed Al Jaafari is an Egyptian poet, writer and farmer.
