Ill-Omened

Did I not stir the sharp taste of past
in my sweetened cup of tea,
were not the barking dogs of yesterdays
left poisoned right behind me?

Have I not sealed the lips of memories
that live still, hushed inside my head-
or am I reminded of all the old days by
the smell and texture of hard bread...

Could it be the immortal scent of the sun
ceaselessly burning the color of my hair,
or perhaps the claws of wind bruising my
white skin; caressing it with cheap hunger.

I thought like fruits that grow on trees,
a little care, a bit of air; all that it needs,
but I couldn't water fruitful dreams-
when hopes were as frail as tiny seeds...

For days I lost, or left behind, linger before me on
my seats, not to think I'm lame, or that I'm hollow
but all the images I tore into halves, suddenly
gather with all their dust near my shadow.

I've changed the key locks, and even my looks,
I've changed the taste of my tongue
the stories in my eyes, the tone of my words,
the smile the touch, I've changed it all along.

But nothing have actually changed,
perhaps my voice, but not the song
I came from an ill-omened past-
in which I'm still stuck, to which I belong.

by: Rania Moallem