Ramadan

 

My love, you disconcert me:

I consider the poets my brothers

and you the shopkeepers.

 

Should I not look

along the shelves

for the hidden poem

of the bag of beans

and the litre of oil

dressed with the blue apron

of the overseas

nights?

Tighten the packets of

sugar

until they exhale their

rhymes?,

the sacks of walnuts

until the rhythms?

To be the little familiar mouse

that  gnaws insidiously

the brothers-in-law merchandise

and look for their cash desk?

 

I don’t know what to say you.

Perhaps you will answer  my poem

with a chickpea jar.

But in this case

my revenge will be terrible:

I will wait for the next sunset

to cook the most romantic stew

that two lovers had ever eaten

while they see arise,

silvery,

the moon’s horns.

 

 

 

Advertisements
This entry was posted in poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s