A Cuneiform Scribe

Kay Hassan

In a time long past, frozen in the depths of history,

A voice awakens my marble statue,

still and serene,

Whispering secrets of a bygone age,

When wisdoms soared high and carefree,

Across the vast expanse of the hazy universe,

Where truth was a sacred dream to vie for,

And mysteries reigned supreme

"I am a a sorcerer," a voice says, and casts a spell

on my marble flesh, to summoning the ancient spirits, in me: Read a scratch on an ancient gemstone, Made of clay and goddess' urine. "A slate for thy labours, son," He, the Almighty says, When He instated his first king.

The sorcerers, told the story better than prophets did: Kings, the real Satan on Earth,

Forced the Sumerian fingers to wedge the clay into the first slate.

Scripts baked in the inferno of his hearth,

Thus the tablets set sail across the ocean of time,

The vast chronicle of man's history,

And broke down into the arks of Covenant and holy books.

But scarcely, we hear the echo of the clay.

"What have the Almighty's wedges scripted in me?"

O' fellow scribes: Let's bake our souls in the same forge,

Lest Devil's breath efface the grace of the avenue of fame,

That may last, like marble eyes, till the crashes of the last star.

Let us heed the call, and journey to the ancient land, To delve into the secrets of nonbeing .

And with reverence anatomise the clay tablets scripts, the engraved Codes of kings, and stories they tell.

We see the hands of the scribes, as they etch with ancient tools,

The tales of battles fought, the victories won by kings and fools.

With every scratch of their quills, a new chapter was born,

Inscribed on tablets of clay, the history of the dawn.

And as we delve into the past, we see the lessons it reveals,

In the words of prophets and seers, we hear what wisdom conceals.

A spring of secrets, that flows from the depths of time,

A spring of secrets, that quenches the thirst of being.

So let's seek the secrets of odds,

and bake our souls in the same forge, Without reverence and awe, unfold the truth . In the echoes of past, we Through which we transcribe the divine voice ,

The call to the journey, is quest, To scratch the content of the reverent divine

***

Oh' dear whisperer,

I am still reading the same scratch on the ancient gemstones,

That, made of clay and goddess' urine.

And rehearsing the covenant,

"A slate for thy labours, son,"

He, the Almighty said,

When He instated his king.

Kings, the real Satan on Earth,

Forced the Sumerian fingers to wedge the clay into the first slate.

"Scribe the name of thy LUGAL,

Scribe the name of thy NIN,

Scribe the name of the holly whores,

Scribe the Codes of the kings."

Scripts baked in the inferno of His hearth,

Thus the tablets set sail across the ocean of his time,

The vast chronicle of man's history,

And broke down into the arks of Covenant and holy books.

But scarcely, we hear the echo of the clay,

But now the echo of our once-constructive material

grows distant, and muffled by the din of our daily march,

Oh' dear whisperer, and fellow universe citizen,

"What have the Almighty's wedges scripted in me?"

O' fellow scribes, Ye all:

Let's bake our souls in the same forge,

Lest Devil's breath efface the grace of the avenue of fame,

That may last, like marble eyes, till the crashes of the last star

Scribe the name of thy NIN,

Scribe the names of the famous whores,

Scribe the rulers' vain attempts,

their plans in disarray,

while their actions weighing down

by the un-efficacy's decay,

Scribe in the modern style

And then baked in the inferno of his hearth,

Thus the tablets had set sail across the ocean of his time,

And through the vast chronicle of man's history,

And broke down into the arks of Covenant and holy books.

But scarcely, we hear the echo of the past.

"What have the Almighty's wedges scripted indeed?"

O' fellow scribes: Let's bake our souls in the same forge,

Lest Devil's breath efface the grace of the avenue of fame,

That may last, like marble eyes, till the crashes of the last star

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The Song of a Blind Bard

 I am the last  blind bard,

They called me Blind Harry

have lost  my voice in the crowd,                                                                                        

Siting  down  the street

Watching the escalator -de chance . 

Like they say "To get  foot in the  door "

Sieving  the sound and fury  of the city,

Searching for  the supreme miracle ,

In His resurrection,

That may take place, right now and here; 

  In the Kings Cross'  T-station.

It is  a days before Harry's wedding,

Thinking; 

 Despite queen's gloomy days,

I would sing  a couplet - from  the lyrics-

  Written  for a layman wedding, 

in my own prosperous  time.

The paper is still with me -crumpled

like a little note in the pocket of an old  beggar.

You don't know what those moments would mean,,                                                                                

for a blind bard in  London city ,

 Harry , and you,  dear Senorita:

 The breeds of such unique worlds:

Royal city, and light city

Let me sing my last song,

“Oh’ Ye too, dear  lady  ,                                                                                                                                 

"Bless our world and give  birth to a prince,

carry our viscous blood.

DNA full of magical genes,                                                        

   
 " In the next stanza.  

  "I won't lie,  though I know ,                                                                                                                                                         

"Heaven  is full of the liar prophets.

" Don't be shy,

" It is my friend who speaks in me,

"Unlike anyone , he is honest. 

"The man has taken a solace from this world.                                                                                      

"Oh’ dear, lady , when do you give birth to a Black Prince?”

Let me tell you in advance:

 “  He can't be a Machiavelli's toy ,

or Othello the Moore, "

O', you too , Diana  of Wales,

                

Forgive me for the valiant language,

It is written in my friend's diary,

 

We need an illegitimate child like ourselves,                                                          

  “In my place there is no difference between  saints and criminals,                               

" between  philosophers and fools ,                                                                                                             

"Between  temples and  harlotry."

 Heaven, however,  he says .

"Is very  much like this world."                                                                                                                         
He had told the reverent  Shakespeare 

"You are  practicing his-bravest day" 

“Oh’ , dear  princess, we need a real newborn                                                                                           

– Not an artificial baby  or king's clone!                                                                                                                         
We need a streak of  a tangible black  amongst all..”

Oh’, sweet, princess ;  the new dweller of the palaces, 

You have placed your body in a wrong place.

It is very much like mine;

 My  world is cold, and  painful ,

Full of the gazes of  disgust ,                                                         

Gazes of  Proletariat,

                                                                                                            

Dreaming of  platform  9  and third quarter  ,

Through which Harry has passed through                                                                                                                         
 The prophecy says ; it  might  open once again.  ,                                                                                                    

My name is  Blind Harry, my address is unknown  .                                  

 Nevertheless,

 I feel the heavy steps of a man;

 David's steps falling down ,                                                                                                                         
 

David   known for his magical skills,                             

 Effortless-  coming down the escalator,

 Agile, like  Achilles  in the festival of colour-

 with a  wooden sword, and plastic phallus   ,                                                                                                   
He may say "I know You well."

He says. "Hi. "

I have no friends my Lady.

But I reply "Hi." 

Because he has a genuine frame.
                                                                                             
” Hi, Buddy . It is a nice day."

I am the Blind Harry,

He says Nothing.                       

And in that astonishing  circumstance. 

 I  too say nothing.   

Thinking, silence is a self respect.                                                                                   
 

No, silence is the password, 

 No  can one crack the silence,

however, anyway- 

I am thinking  until I crack the password,

And I whisper.  

"Harry has said something,                                                                                                   

" But Harry might have saluted a wrong person." 

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THE MULBERRY TREE

Kay Hassan

-From the Old House.

(De quel Age es-tu, Lord.)*
 Oh, Grandfather’s mulberry,
How old  are you?

O'  heavenly  ghost how ld you are?
Your giant trunk’s hollowing ,                                                                                                                        Oh,  miracles  of the  ancient valley,
Yet,  shooting sprigs ,and sprouting,
To shade the medieval  hand-mills,
And the fence of the holy stone
 On which Your lord’s body
Was bathed for the last time
 De quel Age es-tu,

I know how many years
You bore our burden, howls, and  screams,
 and  how long, listened to  Mother’s Lullaby;

 for Her Sick new-born in Hammocks

You endured  our unkindness
Our piercing squeaks-when
Plucked your unripe fruits
And did many bad things with you ;
Un-rhymed, and dis-harmonized
the sparrows’ chirps.

Then we hung saw like ropes of swing.
 Around your neck.
And  for so many years
Wound around your wrist
Rough halters for
Calves’ tanned skins
. (our butter maker.)
And slaughtered  under your shade
For Abraham’s son
A thousand heads of  life-stock
And ripped their fleshes
With the heaviest choppers,
And most often barbecued
Their kidneys and testicles,
With ceremonial moods,
 Screaming.
 ‘De quel Age es-tu, lord’
But,
Despite all our crimes
You said. ‘Whatsoever, dears.’
Again and again,
Until The thunder
Hit thy trunk
And split it
Into equal halves,
Sprawled on the ground
Like an integrated Adam,
Thighs open to the sky, 
Having the  Ditch of  Earth
Between thy mountainous loins,
 Henceforth;we understood,
 How the motherland’s  vagina exposed
 To swords and lances,
And daggers of tongues,
where  my brother shed tears,
On your corpse,
 ‘De quel Age es-tu, Lord.’

You know it is your time
The leaves are wilting, and
They won’t match your Cambium
You know it is your time, and-
 the worst of times are coming-for us,
For all of us.
 And I see Thy pain so great,
 I feel ashamed to display  my  wounds.
Dear father. Dear Lord: 
‘De quel Age es-tu, Lord.’

“Though we were not good species in the ecosystem,
 Dear  Lord of the house
We had loved thou as much as Man can love God.”
-----------------
"De quel Age es-tu," From Arthur Rimbaud.

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