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Live Encounters Gaza Poetry & Writing, January 2024
Funeral March, poem by Aziz Azrhai.
Funeral March
“No one comes back from the war.”
Just words flying in the air
With no causes
Its echo falls in the ear
Like a mine from a blacksmith
Like the hum of a machine
Kissing the goodness of marble.
And then since when was death -in batches-a
Joyful tournament?!!
Just a consolation that needs the feelings of a hyena
And to a heart torn from the concussion
Of mysterious moments.
The herd goes out towards the unknown
Loaded with fear and intentions
Each helmet is covered by a mountain of illusions
And a few words
The echo heals it.
Who’s going to the picnic
Not like going to chills
And not the one who dresses with bullets
Like someone who distributes perfume
On those who rejoice with the smell.
Every throw of the dice
Is a fragile desperation in estimating coincidences.
This is how fortune unfolds
In the form of fatal surprise.
A little while ago I remembered the discs
The biographies of historians who are confident of the whiteness of inks
The legendary dead in books
and the medals
I remembered who left a fireplace
That flirts with its orphan wood
And who stood waiting for a giggle
Gloating over wrong corrections
And whoever is late for the embrace of defenseless people
Treated by the winds of the fifth
Then I remembered the mourners
And the handshakes that
The language metaphors lack.
It was a toxic exercise on endless follies.
In such sadness
Anchors become mere jungles
No one is safe from it:
Birds, raptors, reptiles
And jackals
They are just preys that dogs of the sniper disrupt its salvation.
Then what about the infiltrators into the despair of turmoil?
And what benefits those who retreat
On witches’ amulets
At such a jingle?
There is a hand that draws for the footsteps its bitter disgrace
And joy is not possible
Other than what was planned for it
In the boards of the woodcutters.
In such weather
Remember that “no one comes back from war.”
And you have nothing to do
Just avoid bliss with an open heart
And do not forget to sleep early
In the lap of bad colors.
You are now faced with an arsenal of the impossible
You treat problems with music
And forget the choir of those going
Towards the childhood of the storm.
© Aziz Azrhai
Aziz Azrhai (1965) is a Moroccan poet and visual artist. He published eight poetry collections. He, also, held several art exhibitions inside Morocco and outside. In addition, he is a member of the House of Poetry in Morocco and a former official in its executive office.