Poems

Theatre

(1)

All these wars
So that/ in order to/ the world becomes melancholically lonely / gloomy
So that /in order to/ the home becomes rusty
So that you sleep
Pained with disaster / calamity
All this love
So that the bones utter  ...  nobody
All this death
So that /in order to/ we meet
Only? Is that it / Just for that?

(2)

I write
So that the world lights up in you
Between your hands
So that /in order to/ obscenity lights up the spirit of the body (or the spirit of the body radiates with obscenity)
In you, there is what erases and what be erased
The disease / sickness of the ink
The sweat/ presperation/ of work and panting / gasping / agony
From a one-room flat (literally from a room and a hall/ living room)
To the street and wilderness

I write
With the will of the knowing / the one who knows
With all that is in / between/ your hands
Of brocade/ embroidery/ and thread
With the experience of the voyeur of (the one who so) what moves the body
And Benefits the space

(3)

This small world - before you
Made of straw/ hay, cord/ string/ packthread/  twine/ and boredom
Which slips away/ flows off/ between the fingers like dreams
Scattered by the soul
And you suck it like a smell /fragrance

Do you fear the insects – take refuge in it from the light
Or do you fear the blood – have an aversion to the innocence of the master
Fear/ be shy of/ the fingers/ the lightness/ and the candles?!

This world which is open before you
To make you content with no questions
Is it worth the price of the ink with which it was written?
The price of tears, not dried yet?


(4)

Curved is the time of light, you feel its sting on your cheeks
She feels it
While cleaning the faint-coloured dressing table/ wardrobe
Behind the bed
But suddenly like a dagger
It pierces the heart of darkness
Sailing with the brilliance of the whole world
With the mire of embrace and the murkiness of recognising wetness/ dampness
That leaves the face red/ disturbed/ perplexed
Leaves her laid back in astonishment

 (5)

One, is the white
One, are all the directions
We all hold on to bewilderment, ink and departure

We dwell in our dreams, and spread the kerchiefs /scarves
Bring to the bars news of mirrors and nausea
Rings of smoke, gossip and tales
From each white we count the ink
Tears are united
Surprise emerges
From all directions rise (like sun rise with light) the tombs/ graves

(6)

I see waiting by a door behind you
Opens with a rabab/ violin
So that you can enter the past with a shameless/ spotless future (future with no shame)

Filling your boats with light, after being destroyed from being anchored ashore
Settling your vast stories
Like a shell (?)
Flying to examine the disposition/ nature (?)

Those who are before you
Dwelling/ residing in stupor / absent-mindedness
Their lanterns go through your door
The leaves of dawn are blackened
From the impact of sunset/ dusk/ twilight
Your face was known / recognisable
And the door behind you
How was
The face of the one (who is) before you?!
....  ...  Enter the past with a shameless/ spotless future (future with no shame)

(7)

This is the price of war: your perpetual / eternal loyalty
For the adequacy of clowning/ tomfoolery
The technique of innocence
This is the price of love: your perpetual/ eternal refractoriness / recalcitrance of the fatherhood of techniques
The motherhood of adequacy/ sufficiency/ competence

This is the price of death: You always stay alive / survive
In the tomb of love and the theatre of war
Your always staying/ dwelling in the abyss of submission/ obedience
In the chasm/ void of the world

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