Wednesday, 27 January 2010


by Iqbal Tamimi

I’m afraid…
Proceeding on the bridge of hesitation,
is a return back.

The shoulders of memories are evading me

I jump in the bosom of surprise,
Your eyes undress...
Exposing an eagerness
Heard, crying silently.

You are..
Dreading to shake my hand,
My palm is wet
With a culture of crises.

The fingers of your commandments
Are kneading the sand,
While my shoulders are bearing
The pains of clay.

The olive tree has aborted its ink,
The palm wrote on the testimony of his silence.
I am
The bread of the stranger
And you,
My homeland.
I will wear you in the cold
and I will release you,

Come on with me,
let’s hide our poem;
Our little one will not stand torture.
Let’s hide the hat of time
In the silk of our evenings.

Tonight we can be a field
Until the trees yawn
And Wear their birds

And when the day light
Comes back from his
Night out
We would have plucked
From our throats
The calls of all the sincere people.

Let us support our souls
So they would not break.

Recurrent defeats rained on
Our verbal scripts;
Half told confessions,
Stones kneeling
Getting ready to run away.

You are
A meteorite that was scared
Out of his sleep
And I am
A storm biting the tail of its embarrassment.

The pulse exposed what the reunion has hidden
Two different poles-
You…and I…
But my night
Adores perfuming the sleeves
of your daylight.

© 2010 by Iqbal

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