At Some Point
لاَّ تُدْرِكُهُ الأَبْصَارُ وَهُوَ يُدْرِكُ الأَبْصَارَ وَهُوَ اللَّطِيفُ الْخَبِيرُ Vision perceives Him not, but He perceive…
Old men are writing poems
by pewter moonlight
They live in different parts of the world
but their pen unites them
Their blood is as thin as rivers
after winter floods and the
springtime dries them
Each of them writes his ode
to pewter moonlight
Their eyes ache from peering deep
into lamplight
They’ve seen the comings and goings
and sheep led to slaughter
The night no longer holds any
terrors for them
One ray of moonlight from the window
is enough to save them
The Holocaust is over and slavery and
cries of despair
New chains are on their way
with clanking regularity
Humankind often finds its better angels
disposable
Old men are writing poems
on rickety tables
Chrysanthemums wither in the
vases before they are done
Everything in reality takes place
by pewter moonlight
The sound of their pen scratch
is enough to heal the world
2/15/2008 (from The Fire Eater’s Lunchbreak)
Categories: Poems