When the Lazy Evening Is Born in the East
When the lazy evening is born in the east flocks of birds cover the windowpanes, sleeping by our bedside. Their bird-side is a passage blocked to heaven. It could have been mesmerizing.
In the east, the lazy evening clashes with red traffic lights, passengers crying their murdered freedom, and dreamers blocking the entrances of embassies— in hopes they can find a way to the clouds, in hopes the clerk doesn’t register them as martyrs, in hopes they give birth to poems and camel’s milk, in hopes they become blind— that the earth gives birth again to pearls, frankincense, and trails.
In the east there is hope: that the people march against their murderer and hang him in the souk. They look around and stare at each other; they see mirrors of faces and empty wandering. They see the dust of al-Andalus, the ashes of Averroes’ books, and notes from the Library of Baghdad.
When the lazy evening is born in the east, the broken railroad reverses time— revisits a path to Palestine, where the orange orchards stretch endlessly.
In the east, everything is plain, simple: a sphere of void so easy to spot. Empty classrooms, and moments of doubt. The east is frozen, as if broken— a ball of cold ice rolling down the hills onto its people.
When the lazy evening is over, we can see the moon, as it hands us a notion: a motion for the gathered birds to move. So we can see them fly. So we can let them fly.
We’ve held them prisoners, captives of our creed, captives of our dead imagination, captives of the east we created.