Global Newz, Kolkata, India
The Holocaust of the Last Jew
To live in this world
Like a match in the dark
In the wilderness of his sorrows or pain
To live as if they were wild beasts
She chases him with a broken human law
I started kicking his corpse like an occupying Jew. I saw on the phone screen kicking a naked corpse.
I even saw
Touched by death
It rises like the calls of a drowning person in a bottomless pit
To live like a childhood
Or like a woman’s moan
At this time of year
Insomnia until a cloud of blood
Insomnia until the next dawn
Even rubbish is the abyss
Insomnia to the point of forgetfulness
It overlooks the sea
As if guarded by the cries of infant souls
Insomnia as if it were a dipped shroud
In the water of cold music
He still practices dream tobacco smuggling to those who do not beg for anything and are assumed to be the living dead.
Smuggling gasoline is a mistake, and smuggling pills to numb the clock when the runway is narrow
In the hallway, there was a guide guiding me to my room in the Snobra El Kef hostel.
I was all along the halls listening to a premature baby crying
cries like a stone
cries a bandage
The subway train cries
He cries, a clear attempt that shines through at the end of this text
And blood coming out from under closed doors/
Gates of the forest
Even in that little restaurant down the hotel lobby for breakfast in the morning
With croissants and scrambled eggs
I took my son in a plate
I put a little salt on him and with the brush and knife I cut off one of his fingers and tasted it.
The taste was off-putting and had some bitterness
I forgot that in the oven I left his legs outside the stove and spoiled the food.
I burned my funeral in tomatoes
I tried with the brush and knife with the head
I ate a little of the chopped brain, but it lacked the spices
I licked fresh blood mixed with chocolate conscience
The taste of charcoal seeped into my language
I was trying to raise my head to the screen:
A child was ruined by a butcher with a bomb.
Half a brain mixed with red resentment,
One-third of the organs are damaged.
[Oh my God, the kneading was more real than my mother’s bread
Vibrating under the rubble of houses
piece of meat]
No doubt the price of a steak would be reasonable for tonight’s dinner:
Pastries with baby meat imported from Gazza
About The Author:
Adel Al-Maizi is a Tunisian poet and writer who has published several collections of poetry, including “The Homeland of the Poem,” a poetry novel titled “Yesterday, a Thousand Years Ago,” poems titled “Hooks Fly with Me,” poetry diaries titled “As for me, there is no paradise,” and blog posts titled “This is what he says.” The Body” and others. He won the Fadwa Tuqan Prize for Arabic Poetry, which was awarded by the Palestine International Foundation in Jordan in 2013. His poems were included in many poetry anthologies and encyclopedias.
Some of his poems have been translated into French, English, Spanish and Portuguese