Near The Wings Of Micha-El

Alone in the village house,

in the heart of green amber and fierce glimmer,

I climb to him through the olive groves—

in the silver silence between Micha-El’s wings.

I sit a step beneath his straw chair—beneath the high ledge.

/If only morning never came/

/If only dawn would break and bring the Christ/

He calls me to climb up to him,

says he longs for us to sit at his small table.

"Let me stay here... so I may flee when I hear the horses,

the clashing of swords."

Two hundred years I’ve been denied peace.

Two hundred years, and all I smell

is the mud on his trousers.

I depart before the moon gathers its silver 

and returns it to the Lord of the heavens.

I leap my great leap.

Like every night, I fall like heavy light,

and run like an earthquake toward the purple sea

With gaping pupils

and lips that call out to the mighty moose.

By Fadi Abu-Deeb

From: Syria

Website: https://www.comingeon.wordpress.com

X: FadiAbuDeeb1

Facebook URL: https://www.facebook.com/abudeeb.fadi