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from the May 2019 issue

Electronic Thorns

In this poem, the speaker meditates on the soul's journey through eternity after death. 
 

The soul departing from trees of speech
Does not want to ascend 
Nor to be buried;  
It wants to finish reading. 
..
My heart is a stone that stumbled in the dirt and broke apart 
..
O the mud of the storm, 
heavy, it drags my soul 
From one tavern to another

 

 


My hand is a cage that forgot to lock its door
So speech flew away
..
I am made of music 
That departs on an evening jaunt 
To the garden of the unknown 
..
Wherever my sorrow comes to preside
Mud is my door

 

 

Outside the blathering cemetery
a lone word was lost 
And began to limp 
..
My garden throne was forlorn; 
peopled with memories 
..
My heart, 
a garden filled with thrones 

 

 

The signal was green 
We crossed the road to eternity 
In familiar forms of transportation 
..
In the furor of death
A new tree sprouted 
In fine script
..
Its scent is like infirmity, 
This soul

 

 

It was as it must be
I was as I must be
But we did not agree 
..
In a hefty handbag
I abandoned my superstition.  
The soul travels, rising, falling  
From an expensive handbag 
Out leaks my mud
.. 
Who can direct me toward mud that resembles my dust.
 

"Electronic Thorns" © Reem Allawati. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2019 by Ghayde Ghraowi. All rights reserved.

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