A Nestling on a Scarecrow

Dead words promised in my veins

Shine to heal your severing pains
To maim your severed-to-be time
For wisdom is sought in Will’s rime.

Nightmares pregnant of wounds

Clinging with so many a hand
To my elequent silenced words,
Funeral crowds wailing at night
Majestically crossing left and right
The gloomy paths of my blood…
What a life early married to confiscation
And for life to be sold to oblivion !

A recluse of a time with giant strides

I see a sole mother to my sides
To tear up my senses in deafness,
And , for a death with no nothingness.

Deep shall I bear refusal roots

Of a consoling cynical indignation
And my dreams with no completion
Tatooed in my veins , dormant riots.

I find no ear to harbour my sound

And none to heal any of my wounds,
Painfully shall bear the despondency
Of a time stumbling to look and never see.

Deaf-mute is my absence-presence
In a blood sullen autumn
And in your eternal absence
I’ll initiate myself , O freedom,
To the art of dying times a day _
I ‘ll fling the dice for my way.

I beg the possibility of conquering

Those green meadows of silence
Where prisoner poets weave green verses
To win you to divorce your ignorance.
A second-hand soul mourning loud
To heal mine strewn with swords
Virgin still her spirit is in a shroud
For lack of passion in your love jars.

True passion I’d swear in every line,

All my every line , spiritual shelter,
Slides from so shine to so pine
Spouse of none , proud spinster.
In yonder forest where free birds
Enslaved to the seasons of her woods
Meseems never fail their holy rites
The time the sun rises till she sets.

I play chess and I drown my sins

In the darkness of your dead eyes,
In the storm of your dull clarity
To lose the game and be master to your mystery.

I rush off , I seek your fair doom

Wrapped in a shroud, my eternal home
Where bloody wounds of all time
Befriend my soul in false mime.

Eternally shall I ever break my fast

To yield to no ignorance tempest;
My soul shall trust to your poetic tomb
Her spir t, my apocalyptic womb.
Aziz