Reema Hamza - Poem
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TOO LONG IN THE LABYRINTH
Poem by: Reema Hamza
There...
In the echo of a phantom,
Nothing remains but a road...
And a rose-
The rhythm of harmonies
Plucked by fingers of surmise,
Reciting the testament of the last war.
There...
An ancient tree
preserves the names of lovers,
whispering tales of absence to the wind.
A withered tree, save for a question
That reclaims, from its eyes, the street’s shadow-
And the street, a mere crumb
In the mouth of waiting,
asks:
With what majesty did you return?!
There...
Mute stones
That once were homes
Cradle the childhood of doors,
And question the thresholds:
How many times did the wind pray over fallen pillars?
How many times did the Mass forget the faces of the departed?
There...
In the gasp of dawn,
Sparrows stumble upon a cloud
Named Woman-
Dragged by memory’s mire,
She stammers the contours
Of a suspended moment.
There...
A dim shadow
dwells upon the stairwell’s steps,
Too timid to become light.
It fears its face revealed,
fears the cracks across its skin
becoming a map of absence.
There...
A forgotten laugh
Hangs on the beam of a gallows,
suspended between breath and mouth-
An amulet of echo.
There...
The hues of questioning
Ripple through the void:
How could time betray?
How can a fissure deny its resurrection?
How can a tear dry-
When it never quenched the earth.
There...
The roads have withered-
Will feet still leave a mark
Upon barren soil?
I try to seal the poem,
But it flees-
Like wind escaping careless eyes.
There...
A statue,
And eyes
tugging at the hems of shadows,
With nothing between them
But a fistful of time
And maps
No one loves.
