Poem by: Ahmed Shayo
I have a circle.
A small circle.
And as i grow, it diminishes more & more,,
Devoured by the wounds that tattoo eerie sketches of a forgotten past.
The circle ages like the sons of Adam,
And like mortal men
It writhes and shivers and curls up in a knot
As the heart grows colder.
.
.
I have a circle,
A sort of small circle.
Its diameter smiles in the warm breeze of joy,
Parting the seals of its lips,
And laughs at the threats of the sun setting down,
Knowing well that the moon will invade its sleep
And steal its light,
And wear it like a ski-mask in the shadowy blizzard of night.
And once in a while,
It swells a little larger.
.
.
I have a circle.
Not a big one,
But big enough to let love inside.
And I let it grow from the little seedlings that hide in the cover of soil & rock,
Into a tree that bears fruits and shelters dwellers of the earth below
And emperors of the sky above.
And in an instant,
I outgrow my small circle
And I find my self at the edge of the circumference,
On a precipice that threatens to exile me from the touch of mortal bliss.
.
.
I have a circle.
And its purpose is to keep me inside it,
To lock me out from the thorns of despair,
Hopelessness,
Sorrow,
And the pale faces of pain that haunt the lives of men even after death.
I have a small circle,
But the things i want suffocate the things i have
And more than once
My desires wrung the thorned rope round my neck,
Squeezing air out my lungs,
Tightening the circle into the device of my demise,
And once after a long while,
I have no circle.
& all that is left is the familiar sensation
Of being alone
