Metamorphoses
Each of them was transformed into an animal
That one turned into a dog and became loyal and deluded
This one turned into a horse and became ridden and sweat
That one turned into a butterfly and flew away with her short life
This one turned into a fish and did not drown in the sea
The one who turned into a bull, who carried the plates on his chest
Was sieged by greyhounds
And bled like a moon
The one who turned into a dragon vanished completely
We saw him only in inscriptions and wisdoms
One of them was lonely and turned into a wolf
And he felt a great boredom and ennui
For, as the humans,
Wolves live in packs
So we used to see him looking down amid a pack of them
With his solitudes inhibited in his eyes
Those who turned into birds had different destinies
Some of them carried letters and never came back with replies
Others inhabited cages, trees, and mountains
Others broke wild and kept breaking
They broke first their dreams
Then they broke the weak amongst them
Then they broke the skies of days
Those who turned into monkeys got rid of the step of civilization
And those who turned into hyenas laughed a lot
Each of them was transformed into an animal
We were completely desperate with our humanity
They were transformed and I bade them farewell and stayed here
Listening to their news, and aging
Kalashnikov
An angel is carrying a martyr’s corpse in Syria
I am talking about the exhaustion of the word “developing” in the phrase “developing countries”
The shiver in my limbs
My friend’s ex-girlfriends
I will return this evening to the camp of loneliness
You don’t have to completely extinguish your heart’s fire
Complete blossoming makes me weak
My lung is slowly disintegrating
I smoke from three different packs
Coffee
I want something from love other than its beginning
I did not drink this weekend
When I came back from the camp
I noticed that the general atmosphere was hypnotizing everybody
It was parallel to my trying to hypnotize myself
Pain has to stop a little
Regret has to try again
I will walk the same roads
Friday morning in an unreal reality
Who would say that we too are nothing but characters
In a futuristic melodrama?
It’s terrifying to see the evolution of propaganda
It’s terrifying to acquire spiritual insomnia
My soul would not sleep
For two years, I didn’t taste dopamine
Nonetheless the shooting stars do not leave me
Where are the weapons of sixty years?
Who hides the weapons of sixty years?
What is he going to do with it and with us?
Where is the wheel of this age?
And why did they hide the post-oil engines from us?
For what are those sons of bitches preparing?
The rise of the Islamists gives Marx a smile in his lay
My beloved Kalashnikova
O kind Simonova
The souls of the Germans that you took
Are lighting the night of the camp
When I tried to learn German the revolution happened
I want to learn a new language
And I started asking Google about weapons
Poets have to learn shooting
I can see them on the piles of debris holding their music
In ragged clothes in a long winter
Wanted because they are running away from the language-devouring police
In their secret meeting exchanging Ginsberg and Hafiz
Splashing the ruins with Basho’s and Isa’s haikus
Hiding Niffari’s abodes from newbies
Reality will always be graded like a thermometer
O Heights of fever; O authority of the language’s sunset
Let me be a sad “n” in a futuristic manifesto
They won’t take death from us
Revolution founded a public people’s forum
This is its sole achievement
The Master told me
Excavate the Sufi saint’s grave
I told him after two beats with the shovel
I can’t
It keeps on rising
And why is the angels’ role specified to carrying corpses
Haven’t I told you?
They won’t steal death from us
O my beloved ones
After all what happened
I am originally a “nope”
Smuggling
I caught
Void
I mean
Cold
It is midnight
I will
Go to
Check
On
The guards
I will
Look
To the moon
And
I will
Smuggle
It
All artwork is courtesy of Rana Ashraf.
