By: Ahmed Al shiekh
What is the point of saying, ‘I write’
if we are crafting paper figures… enemies?
And what is the point of saying, ‘I care’
if the night grants itself the luxury of absence?
And what is the point of saying, ‘I wait’
if it places those dots under a magnifying glass,
to expose the shame of our stifled weeping?
And what is the point of saying: ‘I’m sorry’
if remorse casts us like strangers into a pitch-black tunnel,
where we cannot see ourselves clearly?
And what is the point of… ‘the point’ itself?
If we find nothing in its lexicon to console our burdened souls,
weighed down by sins and broken promises.
As if our only tragedy…
is that we loved sincerely.
As if we were awaiting a judgement from someone,
to flog us with the whip of their memory
