Poems

The Manuscript

I did not know that Satan - or Iblis to his friends - was of a short stature and that he was so indiscreet, and a thief to boot.
      I was at my desk in the midst of writing when he came and sat silently by my side. I who am not a giant, was a head taller than him. I was therefore able to look at him confidently, noting each and every one of his distinctive features. In profile, his nose seemed long. His one eye had no eyelashes. A seven-pointed star was tattooed at the corner of his lips.
       Having thus stared at him and recognized him, I calmly returned to work. Here, a poem about Iblis, I said to myself. It was enough that I emitted this thought for my companion to become agitated. I saw a very fine hand come out of his pocket and place itself on top of my sheet of paper. Every word I wrote, he added another with a real sense of cock-sureness I must say. But if one of his ideas did not please me and I deleted it, he immediately give me tit for tat and deleted one of mine.
       We wrote and made corrections for a long time until the phone began to rang. I picked it up, waiting for my interlocutor present himself. But there was nobody at the other end of the line. I finally hung up, angrily.
       Iblis had taken advantage of this interlude to disappear, taking with him our manuscript.

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