Birds prose poem

Photo by Haylie Jaed

She does not really sleep.
She stands on the thin space of night, holds trees with her fingers and takes a nap. Sleep for her is a necessary illusion. Illusion, when becomes a necessity, tears anything apart.
Here she covers itself by dark robes, lurking for the first thread coming from the east. Threads come from the east, says the tale. Every place has its east, says another tale.
And here she is holding with her brocaded fingers the day’s fatigue, pillars, trees, phone cables, electric wires, and dreaming of water and sky.

She wakes me up before dawn.
Earth is hanging from her fingers, tied on a claw over an abyss. She jumps from one mood to another mood, and perfects the language of clarity and ambiguity.
Beats of tank footsteps bang on the road. A troop of slight coughs strides. A bat goes back to its remote cave on board of a crafts-carrier. A virgin yawns to broaden horizons. Tear drops on crossroads. A book hovers with one thousand wings. My papers ferment on wet soil, producing cows and eggplants. Motors are asleep without dreams. A familiar face emerges and disappears. An owl screams. Mice run over the cliff. An infinite egg wraps infinite number of finite eggs.

Here she is wakening me up at dawn.
I recline my back on a crippled bed, moaning with its woody pains. I carry up the ceiling with my eyes and disappear behind my eyelids.
Then, here she partakes, as a herd overflowing with everything;
A plow just like K;
A blade formed like V;
A trough taking the shape of U;
A nail imitating the old headache;
An arm resembling the wheat and chaff dances over fields;
A hungry plate;
A featherless hen;
A horseshoe belonging to a lame horse;
A tongue licking tongues soup.
A scythe cutting the heads of wheat plants;
A saw taking forests by surprise;
A necklace of skulls hanging from a beautiful lady’s neck;
A rock sliding from Sysiphus back;
A rotten brook inhabited by bug-eyed frogs;
A wingless butterfly;
Fish firing on fishermen;
A rhino’s face hanging on its horn;
A tusk formed like C.

Here she is wakening me up at dawn.
A sleepy wake knocks on doors;
Sparrows’ songs rain on tin-plates;
Cables and wires drop from her claws;
Trees hold their roots tight;
Earth rolls on slopes of air;
Then, slowly, threads of the east extend and draw the features of everything.
At that moment, birds fly away from my bosom, while a flock of letters and spots land down on my window and take the shape of a word that I do not comprehend.

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Fareed K. Ghanem

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I am 58 years old, from eastern Galilee, Israel (Palestine). I studied English literature, psychology and Law at the Hebrew university (Jerusalem). In the last three years, I published three books of which is dedicated to prose poetry. You are invited to visit the Facebook page Shadows of Water, where I publish my prose poems I translate to English.
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