The Birth of Chaos

I thought I was deaf all my life until I heard
a silent cry in the wind.

There she is…
There she is in the red mantle.
There she is shedding tears under trees.
She rests under the moonlight,
ruminates under sunlight,
smiles at the sun daily,
scorns the moon sipping moonshine,
screams her lungs out and awakens the beast inside of us all.

She screams:
“Beware!
Beware the ones in pain.
Beware the ones in solitude.
Beware the ones who read.
Beware the ones who write.”

It’s the pre-birth stage;
she numbs herself.
For she drank until she cried out revolution.
For she suffered until she bled the Nihil river.
For she bled until she bled no more.
But one day she will make the world hurt.
The whole world will bleed giving birth to chaos.
The whole world will bleed as she lives again.

Thus spoke Ibn Rishdi.

I want to hide my face and die

I am not my work of art
I am not my piece of music
I am not my words
I am not my poetry
I am not a glorious sunshine

You cannot put your finger on me
You cannot untangle the scribbles
You can only dissolve

It’s a good day to hide
It’s always a good day to die
I want to hide my face and die

I am Ibn Rishdi
I am not great
I want to dissolve into
Something