Adonis Diaries

Posts Tagged ‘Downgraded Gypsy

How have we been downgraded?

 Note: “Re-edit of “Downgraded Gypsy by late poet Mohammad al Maghout. Apr. 17, 2010)

I am a hero… Where’s my people?

I am a traitor… Where’s my scaffold?

I am a pair of shoes… Where’s my road?

I walk Downtown mixing with busy souls

I am in no hurry; the masses don’t carry me:

I am a leader and I am searching for my way.

I rest a while on the pavement; is it illegal?

I rest my eating tin plate by my side;

A learned to recognize the chimes of dimes and nickels falling in the plate

I don’t complain.

I say thanks when I feel reprieve, tired of my condition.

I am a downgraded gypsy who burned his caravan

Quitted my clan, lured by greed in the city.

I extend my arms feeling for a sheltered wall

What’s a clear stream to a blind deer?

What’s horizon to a caged bird?

My ears learned to screen off piercing sounds

I can’t hear the wailing of bereaved mothers

I can’t hear the howling of frenzied mobs

I hear the moaning of latent pains permeating the smog

I hear the soft whistling of permanent suffering

Converging from all directions

From far away scorched lands.

Slaves who chewed off their chains:

They are nostalgic for chains smelling molding bread.

Up North terrors; down South famine;

Dusty winds are clouding the east; and crows are obscuring the western horizon.

A little girl is sitting by this modern gypsy;

She dips her left small hand in a little bag and takes out a handful of dirt;

She grabs the dirt containing a strange specimen of earth wealth;

Dirt holding half a wing of a butterfly, a decapitated bee,

Shreds of shrapnel of cluster bombs,

A whiff of blood, a stench of urine;

Concentrated dirt of fear, human degradation,

Contaminated greed of a dying earth.

No more revolutions, no drastic changes,

No activities demanding Eternal God to extend a few human rights;

Mankind is on his knees, in abject humiliation

Begging pardon of his executioner

For the swiftest relief.

Note: I borrowed a few images from the late Syrian poet Mohammad al Maghout.

Downgraded Gypsy; (Apr. 17, 2010)

I am a hero… Where’s my people?

I am a traitor… Where’s my scaffold?

I am a pair of shoes… Where’s my road?

I walk Downtown mixing with busy souls

I am in no hurry; the masses don’t carry me:

I am a leader and I am searching for my way.

 

I rest a while on the pavement; is it illegal?

I rest my eating tin plate by my side;

I learned to recognize the chimes of dimes and nickels falling in the plate

I don’t complain; I say thanks when I feel reprieve tired of my condition.

 

I am a downgraded gypsy who burned his caravan

Quit my clan, lured by greed in the city.

I extend my arms, feeling for a sheltered wall

What’s a clear stream to a blind deer?

What’s horizon to a caged bird?

My ears learned to screen off piercing sounds

I can’t hear the wailing of bereaved mothers

I can’t hear the howling of frenzied mobs

 

I hear the moaning of latent pains permeating the smog

I hear the soft whistling of permanent suffering

Converging from all directions

From far away scorched lands.

 

Slaves chewed off their chains:

They are nostalgic for chains smelling molding bread.

Up north terrors; down south famine;

Dusty winds are clouding the east; and crows are obscuring the western horizon.

 

A little girl is sitting by this modern gypsy;

She dips her left small hand in a little bag and takes out a handful of dirt;

She grabs the dirt containing a strange specimen of earth wealth;

Dirt holding half a wing of a butterfly, a decapitated bee,

Shreds of shrapnel of cluster bombs,

A whiff of blood, a stench of urine;

 

Concentrated dirt of fear, human degradation,

Contaminated greed of a dying earth.

No more revolutions, no drastic changes,

No activities demanding eternal God given human rights;

Mankind is on his knees, in abject humiliation

Begging pardon of his executioner

For the swiftest relief.

Note: I borrowed a few images from the late Syrian poet Mohammad al Maghout.

Downgraded Gypsy; (Apr. 17, 2010)

I am a hero… Where’s my people?

I am a traitor… Where’s my scaffold?

I am a pair of shoes… Where’s my road?

I walk Downtown mixing with busy souls

I am in no hurry; the masses don’t carry me:

I am a leader and I am searching for my way.

I rest a while on the pavement; is it illegal?

I rest my eating tin plate by my side;

I learned to recognize the chimes of dimes and nickels falling in the plate

I don’t complain; I say thanks when I feel reprieve, tired of my condition.

 

I am a downgraded gypsy who burned his caravan

Quitted my clan, lured by greed in the city.

I extend my arms feeling for a sheltered wall

What’s a clear stream to a blind deer?

What’s horizon to a caged bird?

My ears learned to screen off piercing sounds

I can’t hear the wailing of bereaved mothers

I can’t hear the howling of frenzied mobs

I hear the moaning of latent pains permeating the smog

I hear the soft whistling of permanent suffering

Converging from all directions

From far away, scorched lands.

 

Slaves chewed off their chains:

They are nostalgic for chains smelling moulding bread.

Up north terrors; down south famine;

Dusty winds are clouding the east; and crows are obscuring the western horizon.

 

A little girl is sitting by this modern gypsy;

She dips her left small hand in a little bag and takes out a handful of dirt;

She grabs the dirt containing a strange specimen of earth wealth;

Dirt holding half a wing of a butterfly, a decapitated bee,

Shreds of shrapnel of cluster bombs,

A whiff of blood, a stench of urine.

 

Concentrated dirt of fear, human degradation,

Contaminated greed of a dying earth.

No more revolutions, no drastic changes,

No activities demanding eternal God given human rights;

Mankind is on his knees, in abject humiliation

Begging pardon of his executioner

For the swiftest relief.

Note 1: I borrowed a few images from the late Syrian poet Mohammad al Maghout.

Note 2: Mohammad al Maghout passed away in the 90’s, but this poem matches the current Syrian conditions

We are what our sleep dreams are; (Apr. 15, 2010)

 

Calendar and time going decimal; (Apr. 16, 2010)

 

George Mitchell and I; (Apr. 16, 2010)

 

Downgraded Gypsy (Apr. 17, 2010)

 

Is religion bunk? Case of Byzantium Empire; (Apr. 18, 2010)

 

States Blackmails: Veil versus multinational aids ; (Apr. 19, 2010)

 

Iran and Syria: a difficult 30 years alliance; (Apr. 20, 2010)

Downgraded Gypsy; (Apr. 17, 2010)

I am a hero… Where’s my people?

I am a traitor… Where’s my scaffold?

I am a pair of shoes… Where’s my road?

I walk Downtown mixing with busy souls

I am in no hurry; the masses don’t carry me:

I am a leader and I am searching for my way.

I rest a while on the pavement; is it illegal?

I rest my eating tin plate by my side;

A learned to recognize the chimes of dimes and nickels falling in the plate

I don’t complain; I say thanks when I feel reprieve tired of my condition.

I am a downgraded gypsy who burned his caravan

Quitted my clan, lured by greed in the city.

I extend my arms feeling for a sheltered wall

What’s a clear stream to a blind deer?

What’s horizon to a caged bird?

My ears learned to screen off piercing sounds

I can’t hear the wailing of bereaved mothers

I can’t hear the howling of frenzied mobs

I hear the moaning of latent pains permeating the smog

I hear the soft whistling of permanent suffering

Converging from all directions

From far away scorched lands.

Slaves chewed off their chains:

They are nostalgic for chains smelling molding bread.

Up north terrors; down south famine;

Dusty winds are clouding the east; and crows are obscuring the western horizon.

A little girl is sitting by this modern gypsy;

She dips her left small hand in a little bag and takes out a handful of dirt;

She grabs the dirt containing a strange specimen of earth wealth;

Dirt holding half a wing of a butterfly, a decapitated bee,

Shreds of shrapnel of cluster bombs,

A whiff of blood, a stench of urine;

Concentrated dirt of fear, human degradation,

Contaminated greed of a dying earth.

No more revolutions, no drastic changes,

No activities demanding eternal God given human rights;

Mankind is on his knees, in abject humiliation

Begging pardon of his executioner

For the swiftest relief.

Note: I borrowed a few images from the late Syrian poet Mohammad al Maghout.


adonis49

adonis49

adonis49

October 2020
M T W T F S S
 1234
567891011
12131415161718
19202122232425
262728293031  

Blog Stats

  • 1,427,425 hits

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.adonisbouh@gmail.com

Join 774 other followers

%d bloggers like this: