Do not open the diary
By Iqbal Tamimi
Do not open the diary:
I’m afraid the birds
Carrying the sugar plantations under their wings
Will fly away.
My lie has put on its high heels.
I’m still sixteen and a half years old,
Walking on one hair stretched between
Your first promise
And your next one.
And I have never stumbled.
I still believe that silence is more eloquent than words—
But my high is jaded because of one letter.
I don’t get drunk on poetry as I used to:
Deception doesn’t hurt me any more.
I sleep deeply
And the sky complains:
I cover myself with its rainbows.
I no longer shed bitter tears:
The race of the lines of my face in the mirrors
Has stopped, and I have patched the dress
Of my achievements.
I no longer get a buzz from my persistence.
I no longer cry on a festive day
Because the dust has taken the shine
From my shoes.
I have given up my throne of illusions.
Now I understand the deathly cement crawling on the braids of the thyme,
crushing them beneath its corpselike weight.
Everything is going fine:
Chaos erupts regularly
And all my worries
Seem smaller in size.
I’ve stopped craving to play with water.
I’ve stopped watching the sun
Change its scarf behind
The evening’s curtains.
I beg you.
Do not open the diary.
The birds that keep the sugar plantations
Under their wings
Might fly away.