Te thing is, I\'m no longer a poet
Waiting for the bustlings and bucklings of brewed bright mornings
Waiting at the doorstep of thick thickety things that are finer and lighter than air
I\'m a poet on no grand wait-list tugging between growing pains and growing pleasures
Plainly? I\'m no poet
To tell you what happened will make me a poet
After all what is a poet without time..
Without time offering its velvet back to him so that he\'d imprint his heavy sighs, and scribbles
To tell his tailor-made lies, dichotomies, heresies or his blue-sky truth
But I guess —( I say, almost like a shout in a void) —
I guess, I\'m here because of the words of one the greatest Arab poet, Al-mutannabi:
“I give myself a second chance to hope, then I wait.
“Life is too narrow without the space of hope.”
Waiting has never seen a better description
Brewed with hope for all bustling and buckling breath
And I\'m once again reminded that the fibres of Time tickles with serenades
And the coarseness of the world can\'t be turned to its prime
And fire swims in the sea of unyielding minds
So I begin in the name of the most Kind
Abu A\'ish MK Albani
19.11.2021
11.53 p.m.