Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Prayers of Heron

Written by: Hisham Adam
Translated by: Hisham Adam
Once upon an incendiary sand, this wind was playing with a climate known by nomads as harsh, inhabited by dusty fever and familiar to the cold-blooded snakes and invertebrates. This wind was two-sands away or whistling from an immemorial mirage which landed on the wing of a mythical bird that beaten the legends then flew in a red sky forever. Its blood -which was the only sign of optimism, was sunken in an inch of water, its saliva -which had spilt for the first time when it saw me- It saw me again and did not spill. There is no way to bet, the wound is sinking in the cactus thorn, and in the scales of lizards that adept at deception. The mirage is a birthmark of the Western desert, and its only point of weakness.

Over the full song, the singer kept following the musical scale, but he suddenly fell at the edge of the river when frogs' disturbing sounds escalated. Let us return to the desert where the wind is a single queen of people who love the heat, even those nomads who were afraid of the wind's wrath when it spit sand on their faces and when horses find their way to flee. Oh fair Queen! Some of your people still suffering from headaches and dryness, and there is no refuge from you except these cracks. I love you because you're the only one who can cheat me and I do not dare to speak! I love you because I love to sleep! I love you because you are who I scared and I love her approaching! I love you because we are ancient in the slavery convoy heading north where this wound is an abandoned direction and deniable niche. Nomads worship the wind in secret, and bury oblations under the sands of this desert.

Where does infatuation hide in the daytime! From any direction longing does evaporate, from any interval? And who -along the dark-red blood- knows the fire between my ribs? There is an interval between me and to die. Here is the desert extends its tongue to me and the distance between each step and the other curses me in the intimate relationship between the mirage we can not bet on it and the arid desert. Who -over this fever- can sell me a cube of ice and an oasis of satisfaction? Ah. . How much complaining of a headache! This wind is a dictionary of unread language and an Atlas of non concept geography. This wind was -and remains- a refuge of nomadic tribes who search for a war for cecum camel. I'm the only one who can walk barefoot in your incendiary sand, and the only -the feared- who knows the secret of Thermochemistry

Here is the curse is now on the threshold of my wooden door. Oh my little dolly! How often I cried -just in front of you- before I change my sad accent before dawn? How often I took off my only pride to wear you? It is our secret, so not reveal it to anyone except the wind and the desert. Now, you understand my language that no one understands, all of them -without any exceptions- did not understand, as if I had to learn their language in order to be able to scream in a language they understand. All of them -without any exceptions- thought that I sell beads of witches and pirates' illusions who are looking for a treasure in a sea that no one knows about. All of them -without any exceptions- thought that I am mad so I could not reveal more.

This desert is for nomads, and I have this remote street that studded with noise and transients. One of the transients told me: "Do not stand on the side of the road, and do not sing where no one can hear you" But I want to sing, I want to sing, So I borrowed the voice from heron! A mountain of cotton!!

- Where is your pride, mountain?
- Winced.
- Where is your burnish that was shinning in every rock?
- Declined.

Oh this bottom fever, oh this desert, and those nomads. I am tired of litany, sick of response and sick of those who do not know how to play, and those who do not understand this song.

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