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Calderon said: life is a dream

Calderon said: life is a dream
A deceptive escort between two awakenings
Neither life nor death
Nor something third
Neither life after death
Nor death before life
And it dies among hour hands
Before it spends the night in our bodies

Segismundo chained by precarious stars in vain
Announces a great illusion
And circles of mute dreams

After one thousand and two hundred nights
I see my bones peering in the gardens
If eternity would rule before the dawn
Perhaps it would cure the loneliness

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The fate of the damned one, POEM 32, “The Darkness Will Understand”, Leila Samarrai

Blindness – the fate of the damned one
Hush – the habit of a killer
And dream – the wake of a mortal

It could have been three men
Merged with their eyes
Even though one of them is the blind man

To encounter a man with all his senses is a rarity
Because the road is not marked
Yet
If you do not see
Or do not dream
Or do not know how to keep quiet

(Original Serbian)

Slepilo – usud prokletnika
Ćutanje – navika ubice
A san – java smrtnika

Mogla su to biti tri čoveka
Spojena očima
Iako je jedan od njih slepac

Sresti čoveka sa svim čulima je retkost
Jer put nije označen
Još
Ako ne vidiš
Ili ne sanjaš
Ili ne umeš da ćutiš

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WALK DOWN THE BOULEVARD, Leila Samarrai, “The Second Birth Of Tragedy”

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These streets will never be close to me.
The land is lonely, and the sky is
A dreamy shroud the color of the bloodied stone.

Wind taps on the bones,
The birds gnash with their fangs.
My imprisoned walk desultory from collisions
with revived pillars.
I walk the ghostly cage of felt
Which serves to soothe the birds
Lost in a dream, cumbersome, I grow
Amidst Necessity.

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AFTER THE SHOT, Leila Samarrai “The Second Birth Of Tragedy”

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Without any discomfort (except nausea)
In a suitcase I packed the cut out mask.
Underneath it indulgences , with instructions to be read at daybreak:
„I do not fear death, until the mortician.
They scheme around
The coffin. Stopple the tragedy like a sea-shell.”
(Tragedy is overrated. All the replicas
were soaked by the morning with the eyes of Maldives
in the counterpoint the waves summon:
„Odysseus defeated on the road by a troop of Cyclops.”

Beside absurd begins the strategy.
The wheels of the little machine drill,
She! Grinds the finger rolled in gunpowder with the trigger
Like in the dough,
Illuminates the brain with destructive noise.
May they fire, the clerk murderer should fire and all those others
Who will after the shot carry me out in pieces.

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IN THE AGE OF FALSE TONGUE, Leila Samarrai “The Second Birth Of Tragedy”

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Оh, stupidity, how many mouths have you fed
And how many masks sweetened!
How many spirits barred with rusty taste.

To know false flattery,
To smell infertile life;
Mirrors to the wolf
Galleys on lies, in trance.

But I know that naked truth is a dressed lie,
Magnificent urge watching the ruins.

In the age of false tongue
Without weapons and prow
I cannot conquer the world with symbols of certainty.

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IN THE AGE OF APOCALYPTIC WONDERFUL MIRACLES, Leila Samarrai “The Second Birth Of Tragedy”

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The word lost power, but the power lost not the word.
From weary mouths rests in diction
In the age of apocalyptic, wonderful miracles.

The Grand Idiot will be fed by Earth
And the meek will be buried under it.

Miracles prevail over Courteous Miracles
Courteous fire
Courteous solitude

From the cliff of eyes
Into the imaginary house
Under the dead tongue
Acrimony wants to plot.

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Scream and Whisper, Leila Samarrai

THE_SCREAM_by_CalvinHollywood

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May the screams echo. After that
The silence will stumble like a whipped wild horse;
A moment pilled inside the throat
Overpowers the yowl and endless wind
That whimpers down the roads of land we are condemned to
In a deaf room, in a deaf night, by deaf ears
The scream in my throat is anchored
To the howling whisper.

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Listen, Leila Samarrai

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Listen
Do not wait for the Sun without shadow
It does not differ a harlot
From a drowning woman upon a shore

May the kiss of poetics
Release your thigh to my lips
May the shriek silence everything
Except the gentleness of a fresh prepared rain

I do not regret
That the river sand will cover every stanza

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THE VISITOR, Pharos from the desert, Leila Samarrai

These are my times

When the word is not answered with a word
Harpies speak with the language of dervish
With feces they color the paintings
Of Baghdadi castles.

Bring the fire, lighthouse keeper,
And the moonlight, reflection of the night
So ships see harbors
Sufis meditate through the cry.

Mold , visitor, the bowls
To feed Masnavi to the hungry
and suppress the longing of souls for a soul

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“I was told to drop dead”, Leila Samarrai

I was told to drop dead.
Drop dead!?

I – who shatters you upon a lupine rock
I – who kills you with the breath of breeze
I – who holds your hair inside my palms
I – who do not hear your supplications and don’t know them
I – who carry the roar of waves within my furious brain
I – who crush you with cheekbones of oak
I – in front of who you hop like maddened dervishes
I – before who Samara resurrects from the dead
I – for whom the rocks groan from pain
I – before who Caesar scrapes his white knees
I – who carry in my chest a heart with twelve ventricles
I – who breastfed Romulus and Remus
I – who murdered Caligula during Palatean games
I – who break flesh and eat your bones
I– who turn honey into a new pillar of salt
I – who extract the uterus from the moon
I – who poison your bodies with breast milk
I – who tear tendons with ruby lips
I – who knock you down with words of great-genesis
I – who am a wind which topples giants with my treading
To me you tell to drop dead!?

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