Art Of Death Poem by ISMAEL ALLOUSH

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do not ask me! ! ...
most my days are the forgetting...
my name! ! ...
my name is absence of absence...
I walk alone...
my shadow dress me black clothing...
I go some times...
then I return like the billows of sea...
I do not feel with berserk momenta...
and the moment is frosting inside my eyes...
and a leering of devil court me...
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if I did not know that it is my own yet...
I understand feel of my hair...
fields of delirium...
if I did not understand value of my life...
I know that it is my immorality..my asepsis...
I know that it is like the nausea...
godlessness after faith...
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art of death dance with my eye-lid...
it make my cranks as the ice...
it plash me as the silence between lines of my hand...
colder than bit of ice...
colder than coagulums of fog...
then I practice the despair between my eyes...
I throw out of them..chip of bread..
agape moon..deprival of the love..
and last poem that it was not read yet...
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