agonia
english

v3
 

Agonia.Net | Policy | Mission Contact | Participate
poezii poezii poezii poezii poezii
poezii
armana Poezii, Poezie deutsch Poezii, Poezie english Poezii, Poezie espanol Poezii, Poezie francais Poezii, Poezie italiano Poezii, Poezie japanese Poezii, Poezie portugues Poezii, Poezie romana Poezii, Poezie russkaia Poezii, Poezie

Article Communities Contest Essay Multimedia Personals Poetry Press Prose _QUOTE Screenplay Special

Poezii Românesti - Romanian Poetry

poezii


 


Texts by the same author


Translations of this text
0

 Members comments


print e-mail
Views: 3767 .



Arabesque
poetry [ ]

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
by [peruzele ]

2004-06-14  |     | 







One morning,
when I opened the window
the sun spilled on my Persian rug
like a huge cup of Turkish coffee,
bittersweet hot;
yet, retaining all burned grounds
for itself.



Had I been a Gypsy fortuneteller,
I could have read the signs in every spot I saw,
or I'd have called the news reporters
and, why not, I could have started
a healing business;
but I lack the marketing vocation.



Had I had children of my own,
I would have placed the rug in their room

to watch delighted how they crawl

and tumble and sit down on it

with picture books,

smeared top to toe by the caressing light;
but I have not been blessed with children.

What I did
was to slide the window,
and draw the curtains shut -
dazzle to my sight
there was this arabesque
sanguineous spill
in the velours grenat;
I kneeled on it and closed my eyes;
one after another,

all THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS
came back to me in wreaths,
like the bluish smoke from a nargileh,
like the aroma of dark roast Arabica,
like the sweet fragrance of blooming
orange groves,
and I heard the lament of lutes
and wailing muwassahas
composed by Yehuda Halevi

in times of peace and splendor

of Andalus.



"Open your eyes and watch me acting as your voice"

urged our Representative in Congress.
I did try for a while,
then I knew
I couldn't open wide my eyes again,
because my sight was sore,
very, very tired and old,
maybe as old as Sepharad;
besides
I left my specs either in Baghdad,
or in the Patio de los Leones,
and nobody, not even I could tell
the entrance or the exit of my hell -
this beautiful enchanted Alcazar

in which I will be groping
to my eternity.





Elena Malec, California ,1997

.  |










 
poezii poezii poezii poezii poezii poezii
poezii
poezii Home of Literature, Poetry and Culture. Write and enjoy articles, essays, prose, classic poetry and contests. poezii
poezii
poezii  Search  Agonia.Net  

Reproduction of any materials without our permission is strictly prohibited.
Copyright 1999-2003. Agonia.Net

E-mail | Privacy and publication policy

Top Site-uri Cultura - Join the Cultural Topsites!