Is it me standing here at the sill of your door?
Or is it some transparent shadow
Returning aghast from the hollow pit of time?
I cannot know whither I belonged ere this time.
Nor do I know who on earth I am.
Time is the disease of the flesh
And life is so transient and so slippery.
What on earth could I do in your awesome presence?
And what could I possibly say?
Words crowding at the tip of my tongue,
I cannot, to my disgrace, utter your name.
Benumbed am I and to your pitiying looks
I am damn naught but an eccentric fool.
Fools are no foolish were not there
Mortals to assume they are fool.
And beauty is no beautiful
Were not there eyes to behold.
There, in front of me you are standing
And your frail body ashaking
I can see millions of querries
In the lustrous glow of your eyes
Querries I know and others I know not.
Perchance you are wondering what brought me here.
And whither was my shelter after all this gloom.
Or haply your little heart is throbbing
Bewildered at this unexpected turn of doom.

Mohamed Chhilif