Nothing but a man
let's execute him against the door.
The morning of taking him away was robed
with the freshness of water;
it would be best to finish him off
against a door of blue wood.
His knees were knees of water
a forehead of oak under the rain.
He told me: " talk
of this flower dying according to the curve
of a thought,
of oblivion it offers in the shelter of
and of multiplied love". . .
We shot him against the light
and let hatred rise like baked bread.
Maybe I'll weep for him.
It was simple in the deep earth
Would you come back if I said the earth
was at the tip of my fingers
like a charred branch already cooled?
birds often die deep in your blond hair
they adopt the sea as a vice
because of its sonorous seaweed
and runaways coming undone
too late to be born each second
on their knees before the faces whose every color
is a holy wafer
like a throat seized by cattle who devour a sunray
would you come back if I said the earth
was at the tip of my fingers?
|Nadia Tueni (1935-1983). She was born in Beirut, Lebanon and educated in French schools in Lebanon and Greece. She received her law degree at the Universite Saint Joseph in Beirut. Some of her publications include Blond Texts (1963) and Dreamers of the Earth (1975). |