Thrombosis in the veins of petroleum
When I was a child
I fell into the abyss
but didn't die;
I drowned in the pond
when I was young,
but did not die;
and now, God help us -
one of my habits is running
into battalions of land mines
along the border,
as my songs
and the days of my youth
are dispersed:
here a flower,
there a scream;
and yet,
I do not die!
*
They butchered me
on the doorstep
like a lamb for the feast -
thrombosis
in the veins of petroleum;
In God's name
they slit my throat
from ear to ear
a thousand times,
and each time
my dripping blood would swing
back and forth
like the feet of a man
hanged from a gallows,
and come to rest,
a large, crimson mallow
blossom -
a beacon
to guide ships
and mark
the site of palaces
and embassies.
*
And tomorrow,
God help us -
the phone won't ring
in a brothel or castle,
and not in a single Gulf Emirate,
except to offer a new prescription
for my extermination.
But...
just as the mallow tells us,
and as the borders know,
I won't die! I will not die!!
I'll linger on - a piece of shrapnel
the size of a penknife
lodged in the neck;
I'll remain -
a blood stain
the size of a cloud
on the shirt of this world!
