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وَلَقَدْ خَلَقْنَا ٱلْإِنسَـٰنَ وَنَعْلَمُ مَا تُوَسْوِسُ بِهِۦ نَفْسُهُۥ ۖ وَنَحْنُ أَقْرَبُ إِلَيْهِ مِنْ حَبْلِ ٱلْوَرِيدِ
Ancient mat, never abandoned, of cadmium indigo and cinnabar warp and weft.
Listen, bronze malachite, statue of clay and bitumen sand.
Wait, finally, for your despoiling.
A ritual for percussion, keyboards, and stalagmitic and shadowy caverns.
Empty your pockets and chest.
Leave here what you possess, without exception.
What you possess is not what you will leave here: a jewel glows in your empty hands.
This voice of Shahrazād, aphonic and silent, speaks of nights and stars ground in a mortar.
Draw from it, stirring just slightly, for your inexhaustible desire.
This gust mixed with sand and saliva —of blood and priesthood— called revolution will never stop.
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