When will our sins be blotted out?
When will the pains of the humble leave?
When will the fingers of doubt, touch us?
Are we dead on the road and don’t know it, I wonder?
We are hidden from sight by shrouds of sand.
Of dust diffused by hoofs
in the arena of the sun.
You tell me I am still a child.
Look well at me
For the flood has stains
on my damp shirt, and in my eyes
are virgin secrets not yet awake,
passions that shed the first tear,
wounds that fill my tender body.
Are you thirsty?
Take the rock and strike it
Are you in the dark?
Roll it away from the tomb.
If hunger bites you take manna
And quails. If you become naked
Take a garment of fig leaves
to cover your pudenda from people.
In great tribulation bear out
With the fortitude of Job and don’t despair
If evil is rampant: God’s cross
is raised on the hill of time. On the shore
are lighthouses and when they shine we shall strike
the brow of dawn with our hands, and bring forth
from the rock gushing water that carries the sand
to the sea. In the horizons are a bird’s wings
settled on the skull of night,
and a dark star relating the story
of the manger to passers-by. And in secret,
when stark, is a God who fills the sight,
A God who is not dead yet, a God who pours
Love on the wound.
On my way
are crocodiles and pseudo-crocodiles,
owls filling the house and ravens,
and black clouds threatening with a violent storm
with flood, with death
On the roadside: bones grown stiff
in humiliation, in solitude, in the Now.
This naked creeping being -is he a man,
is he a man in the image of God?
I see he is sliced from the devil’s flesh,
I see he has killed the dragon in the wood
and let its blood run in the earth
to quench the thirst for conquest,
for meeting a world
which beginning has not yet begun with;
I see he has carried the universe in his plams,
thrown it in corridors, built a hut
of steel unattainable by death
or the secret.
I see he has emptied the sea into his eyes,
and hidden his head in the sand
In fear of his enemies: I wonder,
does the blind man see his enemies?
His enemies are:
veins that throb no more with love
or hate, a tongue that says anything but
What speaking is for, and a mind astray
on the way, exhausted by the way.
We are slaves of the past,
slaves of the future,
slaves nursing on humiliation from birth to death.
The hand of days did not make our sins.
We made our sins with our own hands:
Perhaps the sun did not shine to revive us:
Here is the cemetery of light, here the sand,
Here harmless little birds become eagles,
here the first wheat grain dies.
Here doubt does not exist,
Speech dies on truthful tongues,
God’s cross has not blotted out our sins,
Will they be blotted out if our wings
compete with the wind, if the seal
of the secret is broken, or the world obeys us?
My morrow is the making of appointment with phantasy
This has been the case of my forefather as since the beginning:
The raven of separation has no mercy on our victims
Only God arose from the dead
Only something which was God.
We ate His flesh as bread,
drank His blood as wine,
Neither the bread satiated us,
nor the wine intoxicated us.
Yet is light of any use
If it is hidden under a bushel?
I wonder, will death attain us perplexed
As we are?
We have neither understood, accepted,
what ahs ebcome nor what was.
WE disbelieved, neither the hand of faith will redeem us
Like Isaac nor will the atonement of love:
God’s cross is still raised
on the hill of time.
By it our sins will be blotted out,
By it the pains of the humble will leave,
By it doubt will touch us
and the story of the dead on earth will end.
By: Yusuf Al-Khal
The Eternal Dialogue
April 22, 2007 by Bebeth