By: Fareed Ghanem
The door; outside there is everything; flags and noise, traffic policemen, temptation apples, toothy eyes, ears calculating breath-bangs, tinny moon counting steps, cheeks which flower with love, ready to pass to oblivion, flattering chorus, cola tans, gay commodities, markets of puffy speech, and narrow space…
While, inside, on a wooden chair, in front of a loaf of bread and a bottle of oil, at a silent corner, sky and homeland warm themselves at a child’s lap, before they spread out.
A door is a wooden membrane, populated by algae and weevils, dividing between a tiny throne and a wide prison.
A door is two O’s between D and R;
The D of destruction and dogmas outside,
And the R of reposing sea in a water drop.
A door is an openness and closure, around two nails, between death and resurrection.
A door is a bridge standing on bars of desire and lamentations, between intimacy and publicity, between Ego and its fragments.
A door is a meeting between exits and entries, between rejoices and ‘oh’s, standing on a threshold.