The Silent Procession Poem by Fadhil Al Azzawi

I had my hands in my torn pockets
as I was walking in the street.
I saw them peering at me
from behind the shopfront windows and cafes
then they would quickly step outside and follow me.

I purposely stopped to light up a cigarette
looked behind me, like one who is sheltering
himself by turning his back to the
wind, and took a glimpse
at the silent procession.
Thieves, kings, murderers, prophets and poets
were jumping everywhere
walking behind me
awaiting a signal from me.

Taken aback, I shook my head
moved on, whistling
a tune of a popular song
pretending that I am playing a role in a movie
and all I have to do is to walk forward, always
until the bitter end.

Translated by Zeina Issa