The Old House, the Prison and Hell

The sun is well asleep  I'm still sinking in my sorrowful dreams    Then at dawn,  sudden voices of the prayers at the mosque  frighten me  like an earthquake    The dead are now awaken  Babies sleeping in their cribs start crying,  asking to be held in their mothers' arms    Arabic words enchanted  calling for their "Allah"    This prolonged, pitiful calling  by humans  Asking to be forgiven  Begging for mercy    Across the 'masjid' temple, stood an old house  with a big garden in front,  a big garden full of  withered flowers and other wilted plants    At dawn,  An older woman comes out of her chamber    She puts on her glasses and  starts knocking violently on everyone's door    "I don't like milk," I say  "I don't need milk," I tell you  "Do I have to vomit every morning?" I ask you    "Don't you sneer at me," you say  "Drink it!"    Your face, stern and serious, doesn't scare me    There is plenty of room for your smile here  You need not to save it until you're running out of time    Yes, I hear you  You want me to be the smartest, the brightest,  the most perfect being in the whole school    This body  contains  the mark of your hands  Your furious and  vicious hands    This body contains  pain and hurt  that come from those hands  of yours    Your hands never caress me  Your hands are never forgiving    When the World ends,  when the day comes,  I won't be in the same line as you  You are banished  Don't ask me to free you    "Shut up", you say  "Shut your mouth up or I'll torture you."    These ears  have heard so many threats  that come from your mouth    You are the detective  who discovers my lies    You are the judge  who puts me to jail    You are the prison guard  who beats me almost to death,  when I don't carry out my punishment    You are the Devil  who orders me to sin    Now this fragile heart  is not willing to forgive you,  is not willing to forgive your hands,  is not willing to forgive your mouth    I see  at the end,  you will be calling me  like the prayers at the mosque  across our house,  calling for God  You will be looking for your lost child  You will be calling for your daughter  Asking to be forgiven  Begging for mercyThis was very hard to write. I literally got sick when I was writing it. Thanks for reading. Written February 15th, 2002 © on Mar 30 2002 07:29 PM PST   0 • 1