Jaafar Hachim Al-Badri
2018 / 5 / 27
A Memoryless Homeland
By : Aqeel Fakhir Al-Wajidi
Translated by : Jaafar Hachim Al-Badri
The cigarette in his hand is his featured image . It is his bride since the first disaster attacked his soul . Its smoke which occupies the atmosphere visualizes the same scene , but keeps the scenario . The hand and his cigarette are his merit for repeated days .
His leg which was dismissed in a garbage sack worths a homeland that denied him when he aimed to recite on it . His shade fragments in a corner of the dimmed room in a moment of remorse and his eyes which stay away from focus are a platform which momently executes a dream that stumbles at the door of poverty . The scalpel was benignant . It didn`t cut down just the rest of his leg , but also the false faces which vanished frequently letting him living in isolation having no partner except a window that became his overlooking eye and the remains of a hope as this circle of smoke whenever it expands , it vanishes .
The wailing which the sky stopped hearing it is a feature of houses that sacrifice their spirits generously . In spite of their narrowness , they themselves share wailing alternately as holy clear signs recited during periods of orphanity and the ends of the death (1) . The night hymns the whine that delivered from breasts as you think that the houses listen to them in order to gain silence . The silence of sadness , inside spirits fainted of waiting and self-deception that eyes may wake up finding faces which are so long waited , is the most fluent .
Night is the shelter of the broken souls , those whose dreams are futile , those who gaze the sky seeking for mercy . Night celebrates another wailing towards his hearing . A further one is from there and a further …. The voice of wailing doesn t scare his heart anymore so that he is heartless since wailing kidnapped his heart when there was a crowd at his front door . Coincidently , his dreams became old as he saw the dead body of his father carried in a vehicle ! He , then , buried his heart and the remains of his father in a hole which he lately apprehended as a grave . It is night which doesn`t scare him anymore since all days without his father are mere nights . All the humpbacked houses are victims of wars which have no fuels except poor people . Wars are heirs of wars in a homeland that is addicted by death .
There is no voice of Fayrooz in such lazy mornings in a city where its birds are looking dreadfully afraid of the stones of the boys who are running towards junks as if they compete the coming dawn . It is another spirit taken upwards to the sky by wailing to send down dreadful silence and sadness . Only those who dream of ceilings construct walls and weave hopes as ladders . Only those grant spirits pricelessly .
Night is a dreadful silence which cannot be distributed unless the creaking of the tinplated doors of houses that are packed together as if they seek for warmth . His eyes are lonely observing the world and these heavens which on their doors the prayers and the spirits of deads are broken . There are no news of poors who were celebrated by wailing . Our senses are too disabled to realize that . This who is a slave in earth cannot be a king in heaven !
He is forgotten as an unrecorded idea . Since the homeland abandoned its memory , the window became his wide world and the crutch on which he recites without boredom . The thrown remains of cigarette through the window in a spiral motion are part of his enjoyment as they are shooted by his hand . They are as bullets which were about to burst the heads . The bang is still in his hearing while he is crossing the battle screens sequently towards the military hill that is shooting fire against them . His buried heart pulsed beneath the soil . Only poors who keep their stuffs and only they who believe that they own everything !! Yet , neither he owned the necessity courage to bring his leg nor the scattered blood was qualified to the greenness of tomorrow .