He Grew Old

By Hamdan Dammag


He grew old

In a stolen teardrop of time

He grew old

And the Camphor tree in front

Of his house

Grew old.


And the butterflies

Which coloured his dreams

And the beating of his heart

Which accompanied his sadness

And the letters

Which lit up the galaxies for him

Grew old.


The silence of defeats

The groans of ruins

All his cuts and victories

The fractures his hands had repaired

Grew old.


The secrets the mawwals wove in songs

The memories

The eyes which had been full of stars

And the unblemished hand whose palm

Had watered the stones of drought

They all grew old.


His words surrendered to the creatures

And to dust

His splendid thought got rotten

His lungs could no longer draw breath

To paint playgrounds for the orphans

His ears no longer hear

The whisper of the creeks

Or the dancing of the lonely grass

On the hilltops.

The roof of his days cracked open

His walls gave in to floods

His lightning shrouded him

And then

Grew old.




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