Deprived of the spirit,
Left split,
Bit by bit,
Amid death and life,
Left impeded,
Disabled,
Unable to help it.
The body is vacant.
No life is inside.
Only emptiness rules in,
And so does it outside,
Darkness is the inhabitant,
And I'm drifted on its tide,
Loneliness is the occupant.
Salvation is what I bide.
No part is any longer mine,
The sight,
Mind,
And the heart,
All are dwelt,
And so is every part,
Grabbed,
Can't be felt.
My being is hung,
Horribly Burnt,
About to melt,
I'm condemned to longing,
Constantly yearning,
Eying nothing,
But the reflection,
Of one thing,
Taking shape of everything.
The angelic shadow,
I try to flee from,
Yet, It chases me, though,
Omnipresent are its traits,
At which I glance,
And gain temporal fits.
Such a trance!
Thrown by its lance,
And had me on the ground,
Groveling,
And writhing,
Of permanent wrench,
Flinging me into non-existence,
It garroted my presence.
In each vein,
I've stroved knives,
Awaiting the hand,
To take off every knife,
Awaiting its touch
To put me back to life.
RACHID OULAMINE
