The Art of Pain

(Before a trial by the vacuum of space and the absence of beliefs, where we had to re-record words used in discussion with me or supposed to be called me. A recent session of a book called the Art of Pain due to come out soon)



She stretched her hand, towards the breast of a fig tree.
She picked up a fruit which makes eyes rain and rain dries from the lips of trees.
She lied down with her illusions next to the burning words listening
To a short story written by her absolute needs!!!!
Her hair went to the streams of broken thoughts
Her thoughts went to the empty baskets of the wind…

Oh that castle built on the sand of his childhood
Its rooms
Its wings and its deep holes..

I bring my spirit to the ash of time
Where the boats break their oars
Where the oars touch the sprays coming from the sick letters
The soul hanged on a fly’s eyebrows
That was the earthquake under the Dream..
We enjoy the fire under the roots
Of the last journey to the dignity of the Pain
I have my hands now on the strings of my heart
Playing for the pile of vacuum
On the chest of the Need
I have the need for Pain
To cure my waiting
For the Trial of my words; Tomorrow…
In the presence of absence.
But we, when we use
The passages, seasons escape through
We create the hope of the leaves
To fall on the feet of the streets.
The winter of tears
Is the witness
On my last meeting with the wind
The fall of spring
Is the mouthpiece of the End.
Every morning lovers come to the brink
To throw their last screams
In the strangeness of the valleys.
So, how can we see our intentions
Buried behind the curtains of our deeds?
Now, the oceans are sending the modesty of fears
The tenderness of the of clouds'suicide
Cover the breakable souls…..
Now it is time to leave the caves of ideas
The nets of creation
And mourn
And mourn till the next tears….


Ghias Aljundi
London
7.12.05