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I need
a ghost
To tidy
my wardrobe
The
clothes of the departed ones this side
And
henna that side.
I need
a ghost
To
punish the books that have betrayed me:
These
piles deserve punishment
For
leaving a hole in my peace
So I
will not mind to stuff their ears with hay and
petrol.
The
ghost will understand my joy
Upon
burning the covers
With
coldness of the Nazis
And the
skills of the cooks,
Then
spreading the papers under the fried chicken
To keep
the clean dishes
Clean
After
the unproductive men have dirtied them with their
bad metaphors.
I need
a ghost
To take
off the buttons from my computer
And
pass the mouse
on the
rough pad
To lick
scars and dust
And
signs marked by the lover
On his
lady’s leg
Ghosts
are good
And
silent
They
fire at the dwarfs
Those
who smudge the walls with their blood
When
they head-butt them every Saturday
Because
they have no shadow
And the
lost bird perches only on the poets’ heads.
And
dwarfs
Recline.
Ghosts
are light
They
don’t occupy places
And
save air and time,
They
are scientists
They
cover the sun from reaching the short ones
Whose
shrunk legs
Spoil
the painting of light and shade,
They
are wise
They
eavesdrop on the girl and the boy
Next to
the old waterwheel:
- If
you have no wrath on me, I fear nothing!
- I
have! He said.
He got
up, heading towards the hut
She cried,
The
youngest one
Soothed
her with a flower
And
caressed her plait,
The
eldest one
Raised
his forefinger, warning:
Bring
not the hut down!
A poet
is inside.
***********
© Translated by
Sayed Gouda
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