The Butterfly's Tears

A crying city. (Hebron, 2007)

------------------------------------To Ashraf Fayadh.

Today,
children’s skulls
are being made of little doves
chopped into pieces
for a few dollars
by a gasoline-stinking
 — — — — — — — — society;

to be a poet is to rearrange
the chunks of flesh
in order for the dove to fly again
to be a poet is to sing
alongside the mute bird
(that they extirpated her chords,
her eyes, her tongue)
to be a poet is to not shut up,
to take the rubbish out of cans
to rearrange it
and make it soar in flight
and make it sing,
and make it cry
a sparrow for the morning
that the nightingale is tired
of not sleeping
and his tongue is not enough
his breast raw with never-closing
wounds
disinfected with petrol,
with justice,
and with coins
(just a few).

Today,
to be a poet is to inspire
constantly
the butterfly’s tears,
and with every inspiration,
maybe the last,
to search the essence,
the fear,
to say the domination
of Empire.
If we were to extract
the cranial bones
from our entire population
we would only find
the rotten pieces
of the dying doves
(aren’t they already dead?)
and so it smells like fuck
like rancid gods
whose (all the) grease
coagulates
covering the heart of the world
(thrombosis) necrosis of artistic tissue.

But we are all here,
right beside you,
rearranging garbage into music,
desperately trying to find
the rotten pieces of the doves
that still can make fresh birds
to sing, to fly,
inspiring the tears
shed by the trees,
the butterflies.
Stupid people ask where are the poets;
it is evident that in the grey-ass dumps
lest they should be found
to be lynched,
to be lashed, to be hung — -
from the singing of the buried coffins
they construct cathedrals
from the crying,
from the endless sobbing.

When they mutilate our faces
they will wear them every day,
and our skin will be their boots,
 — — — — — — — — — -their carpets.

One day will arrive with another poet
that will try to rearrange
our rotting remains
to see if they still sing,
or, 
like the doves,
have been corrupted to the heart,
demolished to the bones.
The poet will find us there,
dead,
but uncorrupted, singing till the end,
till our heads roll off the executioner’s sword,
till our tongue is eaten by the crows
and our eyes are blinded by the worms,
singing,
side by side,
the poet will find us there,
find us all,
like the sparrows,
inspiring the butterfly’s tears,
the trees’ autumns,
microscopically rearranging
pieces of flesh,
of bone, of shit,
to make them sing,
and soar in flight,
even if only
for the remains of broken hearts.

Right here, right now.
A support statement for Ashraf Fayadh by Angel Aragón, director of Fallujah. and Mute Lyre Films.