Zayy El A'assfura

Muddy, black shoes on the carpet

The room still acrid of Gitane smoke

Folly in age, or fury perhaps

For the feel of a lazy noon

And the balm of a dusty summer rain

           Boats do not dream of ports

           Nor of times in distance lost

           But of an old deluge, now a tremolo

           Shy, as dressed in tender thoughts only

           Awaiting that tremor of silent mornings

           Free of dew and yet untouched by frost

                 The black shoes are still on the carpet

                 As unrushed, I watch an old port city wake up to the taste

                 Of a name, that like a bird on a weak pine tree branch

                 Rests, without malice

                 Upon a pale moment of grace

                                                                              December 10, 2013

© Vahé Kazandjian, 2013