By: Fareed Ghanem
When eyes rain on beautiful steps along a novel’s paths, while you stay out of the text, know that you are put in the margins; when you boil like sleepless volcano, just to furnish a ring for a high lady’s nose, then you are a margin; this is you, when you take the role of a thorny field just to be a statistic for a flower dancing at a princess dress.
To live in the margins is you standing like a bleak wall, on which a gay painting is hanged at a public sale; it is you spreading as a forgotten sky just to be a background for Joseph’s moon; it is you being a wide sea, solely to encompass a fisherman’s line.
Marginality is being a footnote illuminating the text for free; it is fleeing from crowns which inherit brutality and headache; it is you being a mountain hanging on the wing of a bee working as a nectar collector for bottles of glass.
Running in the margins means to be stretched as sand dunes and thirst, just to allow an oasis and a love-story blossom over you; it is to be a nameless wind delivering letters between two turrets; it is you being a vast night just to gift one sole candle with a shiver of ecstasy.
To stand in the margins means you being a rainy winter, just to endow a meaning to a luxurious ember; it is you being a nude autumn serving as a justification for a changing-clothes room; it is being a complete summer solely to grease with bronze, faces coming out of shadows.
Marginality is you being forests all, while historians drop you out off their papers; it is you being flocks of migrating wild swans, only for breaking boredom of those napping in skyscrapers; it is you being the Atlantic Ocean, so that Heracles can conclude his myth.
To be in the margins is to belong to a galaxy, while nobody attends your funeral, except for a handful of dust; it is sowing your face by wheat and oats, while you are fed to guns; it is you drawing a circle with the blackness of your eyes, while its center bans your coming in.