Shattered to the Miniature

Dance with me when we fetch the air

And weep with me when our fisted veins stray in the meandering loop, my little dangling heart.

Lies are now the blood of the deans by God
And truth is now the key to death.
This is our mood and we have no treasure to batter it for
Lest our solitude silence we always linger with
And the procrastination of the woes of God we do wash our rancid faces with
We juxtaposed our streets with the hope of change
But all we have are the daily mysterious deaths
Or the treacherous disappearance of our beloved bold faces
And we still stay aloof the pestering truth
And thus swell our hearts with the coaxed poisons of silence.

Oh my little dangling heart
When shall we shy away from the gout of shame?
And strangulate that silky thread tying our souls.
We should eat from the bosom of hell
And be able to sense the manliness in us
Oh my staunch immortal mates.
Can’t we drink from the waters of Tunis?
Or bath in the perfumes of Tahrir
Or wear the boots of Tikrit?

We are right at the tip of the loom
Lest we act swift, our axles will go stiff
Then shall we float in a sea of limbo
Like the bleak shrills of Somalia.


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