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Apr 2019
Li kieku jerġa jiġi Kristu,
Lanqas jilħaq jitma ruħ.
Tilħqu taqfluh ġo skola,
Imsallab mill-punt tat-tluq.
Jilħaq jitlef ruħu fi xmara dmugħ,
Hekk kif il-ħajja jduq.
Jerġa jħoss x’jiġifieri in-niket,
Kif jarana naħxu dak li nibet,
L-ambjent tagħna, b’passjoni neqirduh.

Swied il-qalb;
Mument ta’ skiet,
Mument ta’ talb.

Qalb mogħdiet miksija bil-konkrit,
Nesprimi dar-rabja u dan l-inkwiet,
Ngħix il-ħajja mingħajr irbit.
Ngħid dak li nħoss,
Noħroġ dan il-kliem mingħajr intopp,
Nidgħi, meta xi gvern ireddali xi żobb.

Ilni ma nikteb,
Għax b’dan il-kliem ma nafx x’ħa nikseb.
Dil-kuxjenza li xogħla tniggżek,
X’għamilniela biex tfejniha, tgħid?
Għax jien nġibilha skużi, ġieli;
Ġieli, tgħidx kemm nigdeb.

* *

Vera ilni nipprova;
Nipprova naċċetta li nagħmel dak li d-dinja ta’ madwari tapprova,
Sa għamilt kors, ma nafx kif, imma ggradwajt u krejt it-toga.
Tgħallimt, u sirt għalliem,
Ktibt poeżiji li jħalluk bla kliem.
Ippruvajt insib il-paċi u s-sliem,
Qtajt il-pastażati bl-addoċċ,
Iż-żiblata ta’ bla ħsieb.

Xejn ma ħadem;
Xejn, kull ma għamilt inqridt,
Sa ġieli dħalt fid-dejn.
Qisni mort ngħix fi sqaq l-infern.
Donnu, d-destin tiegħi qisu ħaddiem tal-gvern.
Dejjem għajjien u dejjem m’hu sejjer imkien,
Destinat li nolqot in-noti b’mod stunat,
Imwelled f’did-dinja b’ritmu sfrenat.

Min jaf kif jitbellah Kristu,
Jekk jerġa jiġi ħdejna;
Jara kif it-tagħlim insejna,
Kif ngħixu ġo gaġġa mżejna,
Kif mingħalina li sirna s-sidien ta’ dil-gżira ċkejkna.

L-ewwel, inwerwruh bl-injoranza grassa,
Bil-passivita’ ta dil-***** ċassa.
Imbagħad, ngħaxxquh b’kemm hawn minnha jmutu bil-ġuħ,
Biex ma ngħidux *** f’liema direzzjoni sejrin,
Kif ilna għaddejjin; ‘l-aqwa li jien minn ***!’

Ejja ngħidu li ma nsallbuhx, ħa;
Kristu probabbli jtiha għal isfel, li kieku.
Qabel ma jerġa jiġi, jiġġieled ma missieru;
Jgħidlu ‘le, ma rridx ninżel!’

Qalbna, il-qofol mikul bin-nekrożi, tinten,
Bil-mewt madwarna, tittanta u tiżfen.
X’saltna t’Alla; mhux li kien,
Mhux li kien nerġgħu niksbuha maż-żmien.

____________________________________________

‘If­ Christ Came Back’

If Christ came back, he wouldn’t even have the time to feed a single soul. You’d lock him up in a school, crucified from the get-go. He would drown in a river of his own tears, as soon as he tastes life. He would experience sorrow anew, witnessing us destroying that which has blossomed, the very environment which we passionately eradicate.

Blackened, sorrowful heart; a moment of silence, a moment of prayer.

Among pathways covered in concrete, I express this rage and this anxiety, living life with no attachments. I say what I feel, pulling out these words without any resistance, swearing whenever some government shoves its **** down my throat.

I haven’t written in a while, because I don’t really know what I’m going to achieve with these words. This conscience, whose job is to sting, what have we done to it to switch off? I give it excuses, mostly; sometimes, I really do lie to it, a lot.

* *

I’ve really been trying; trying to accept doing what the world around me approves of, I even finished a degree, I don’t know how, but I graduated and rented a toga. I learned, and I became a teacher, too; I wrote poems that leave you speechless. I tried to find peace and serenity, I cut out senseless debauchery, the mindless ******.

Nothing worked; nothing, all I did was destroy myself, going into debt, even. It’s like I started to live in hell’s alley. It seems my destiny is like a government employee; always tired and going nowhere. Destined to hit notes off-key, born in a world with a relentless rhythm.

Who knows how shocked Christ would be, if he ever came back. He’d see how we forgot all his teachings, how we live in decorated cages, how we think we’ve become the lords of this tiny island.

First, we’d terrify him with our crass ignorance, with the passivity of the dazed masses. Then, we’ll make him feel worse when he sees how many of us are starving to death, not to mention the direction we’ve taken, how long we’ve been going: ‘as long as I come out on top, eh!’

Let’s say we wouldn’t crucify him, maybe; Christ would probably jump off a cliff, if anything. Before coming back, he’d argued with his father, ‘no, I don’t want to go back there again!’ Our hearts are rotting in their core, necrotic, with death dancing around us, taunting us. God’s glory? Yeah, right; if only, if only we could find that again, in due time.
Happy Easter, a*sholes.
Julian Delia
Written by
Julian Delia  24/M/Malta
(24/M/Malta)   
282
 
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