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DRIPPING WINDMILLS, Leila Samarrai

DRIPPING WINDMILLS

Snatch your mind from the clutches of the wolves
That have been observing and watching you
And fasten it with quiet dignity
Snatch it with a torrent of your body
Then wipe the sweat off your brow
While the beasts lure away
And may it be your last address
Your last stronghold before the voices of the buffoons
That boom at first
To make a pharynx out of your ears
So they could vomit cozily and instinctively
All over you
While glorifying the spiteful noise of theirs
And bursting with exultation
Herds of pigs look forward to your fall
But you just mute the miserable noise
Of their shameful fermentation
With no laughter appease those who’d like to
Sit on your head
Who would snarl then
Shamelessly accepting
The last cadaver out of the darkness
May the redness of a total autumn flood you
Of an autumn tearful and adored
Confronted in the dusk with the secrets of shadows
And then all will pass
Just take a little breath of fresh air
And rip out their Secret with your ears.
Let them scream
Helpless and empty
Finally.
And while they’re grabbing you
You break loose with your teeth
With your nails
And you foam and keep on pushing them
With your elbows
With all this stuff
Past and future
For the sake of your time that is arriving
And overcoming them
Your deed will extol you
Like a spark of kindling wood
Which haunts the serpents tails
When driest is your mouth
And thirst torments you
And you’re starving
It’s them
Them who
Brooding over your head
Await the last wind that will
Bring the cry out of your throat
And they’ll feast then
Peacefully and self-admiringly
Over your carrion
Don’t you let them do that.
Instead, quarter their bull heads
Make them fly away
Let them merge with that
Treasonous air
Oh, did they sway you once
Upon a time
While you languished in hopelessness
While heart of yours was starless
Then, when you suffered
Assigning them your word
At their mouths you looked
And you shrieked and teetered
Consumed by hangover
And they plowed your throat while
Their unskilled hands chanted hollowly
Writing lyrics with your own blood
Never let them do that again
You just silence that greedy mob of pigs
Which calls itself a pack
Mountain wolves they call themselves
And for your glory of tomorrow
After all the hushed-up vileness
The One that never dies will take care of
The One that resides in your deed
Like a chaste bride
For tomorrow you will live forever
And a fog will devour the bulls
The burden of time will blow to smithereens
All those thieves anchors and gory pits
Those growing arms that are grabbing your sleeve
And pulling you
Browsing the back on which youre laying
Coiled and voiceless
Time will doom them
With your new verses
It will write on the crown of their heads
And point a finger right in their eye
Because they should have never
Attacked a dragon
Those shameless plucked eagles
And the living fire of your proud spirit
Will swallow them with all their
Confidence
While you climb in the solitude of prayer
Reaching the uttermost cognition
God Himself will save you from the evildoers
Ill-fated hearts
Don’t you shed a single tear
Don’t let a sound escape from your lips
Rejoice because you’re a poet
And Gods inspired you for eternity
You will live when there’s no more roars
And in the darkest night you will live
And you will breath peacefully
And you will love.

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Leila Samarrai: SAMIRA’S COMFORT, “The Second Birth Of Tragedy”

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SAMIRA’S COMFORT

You bite the poem under the tongue and words which made reminiscences into dust
They do not understand you, actrisa.
It is time for aktshluss

You were chewed by the populist phenomenology
Of verses devoid of poetry
In the band of false troubadours you cannot be actor primarium patrium
Aristocrat among poetesses do not forget that the Arabs divined your fate with arrows

Do not worry, Leila, I enjoyed reading your verses,
I Samira, the trade woman from the satrapy of forgotten empires
On my breasts I bared the burden heavier than the grandiose pillars from Hatra
Forever banished from the cradle of two folk I belonged to by the disfavor of Alan and Beog who found a dying city

Do not worry, Leila, with you are Greeks and Sarmatians and your name is nailed into the Grecian affiches
Announced by Sophocles on fliers and billboards of alternative theaters
And Caligula dances with your Greek single act dramas on Palatine games

Do not worry, Leila, unpopular poetess in a world which you overcame
With the miracle of discovering the secret home in which you mastered silences

Do not forget everything is a matter of injustice because there is no justice
Do not forget the world became a mine field and an insult
Do not forget another world will be chiseled by your verses of immortal longing

Do not worry, Leila, there will be time for all those who hotly growl on the mention of your name to understand
The unbearable ease of existence and the feather of your French Alexandrine.

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