Global Guest By Ashraf Aboul-Yazid Ashraf-Dali

The Memory of the Silence

Ashraf Aboul-Yazid, Egypt, March 13, 1963. Editor in Chief, THE SILK ROAD LITERATURE SERIES, Worked in Cultural Journalism for 30 years. Authored and translated 40 books. Man of Culture for the Year, 2012, Tatarstan, Russia. Manhae Prize in Literature, 2014, the Republic of Korea, Arab Journalism Award in Culture, in 2015, UAE, President, Asia Journalist Association since April 2016. Some of his books are translated into Korean, Turkish, Persian, German, English, Sindhi, Spanish and Malayalam.

No one reminds you of Your night companions, Except a burning head, Full of the ashes Of their stories! A head full of silence. They left their wives away, They left their sons In the alleys of memories. And they left their brothers framed In windows. They came out of the heart of hills, To sink in the night of silence. They passed, leaving you With the cold bread Of the hot night. Will you read anything? Books will not offer themselves easily Offer to you. Every evening, You open a volume of poetry, Not to read it, But to just receive your dreams Between its lines of verse. What could the texts of the world do For a head full of Disaster? Will you watch the paintings On the walls of the room? The crying boy is on the left, And the weeping girl on the opposite side. But the poor artist can not paint A joining way between both of them! Yesterday, Dreams were no longer running On your pillows. You pass from bedroom to hall, with your worries: How many seasons did pass without having anyone To look at your window? How many years did pass without having anyone to knock at your door? The flying bird, on the neighboring wall Does not sing for you! The standing man, in the opposite window, does not smile for you! The faraway crossing female, does not look at you! And the cat, Does not pay attention, To your mice! And, the next morning will not carry Anything new for you, Except the sorrow of the newspapers, And the sore of coffee. I am climbing over the gate of the past, Looking for those who passed, Nothing I can see on the ancient glass, But some shadows of faces, under naked trees. I lived the silence tonight, So I did yesterday, And the day before. Do you remember anything? - When I forgot my sorrows I forgot my joys! (The Joy is just an apple cake burnt in an American oven.) The trees throw their dry yellow leaves. You may walk on them to break this silence. The stone you may throw into the pool, To splash water around you. This will not force the body of silence to sink. The flute of a branch may break the virginity of silence. Alone you walk, Looking at a mirror, Talking to The floating face on the ocean; asking: Who can break this silence? Alone, You will never bear anything! You wish a fire, You want the stick of Moses To drink the river of silence; The river of disaster; The river of bad news; The river of the dead dreams; Who would give you that Holy fire? The towns of the world Get noise every morning, And get up. Except this one! It has never got up! The silence of night crept Into the streets, Even car horns could not Speak a tongue: - This red tea is sour - Sore sour? Put more sugar. - A spoon? - No, ten spoons! - Is red tea still sore sour? - Give more sugar? - Few quips cubes? - No, ten ones! The salty towns are sore! This morning is just a coin, You do not trust its metal. With no face, To suit every time and place. If you get out of The cold coffin, You shall sink In the solar tomb. Live human beings have The faces of dead bodies. And dead bodies have The smell of living people. I am scattered among them. My green passport’s papers are dry, As I cultivate my way, In the heart of the desert! This land is a mirage, A womb that gives birth only for our disasters, It is the land where we build cities, Will never be the homes of our children! We shall not know, How will rains come On the body where sadness Is camping in his eyes! A body is not concerned with anything, But this red silence, That looks like the summer’s nights. There was a bell ringing, To set fire in the night With their tales of silence. (I may through my head away of the door) And close it after them.

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