The last thing to do

The last thing to do:

He rises one day before dawn,

calm and cool as if frost,

with a heart beating slowly, regularly, and yet definitely.

His glaring vicious eyes sweep the woods of the old house;

here he has lived for too long,

way too long,

and time passed on him indifferently.

On the wall stand the pictures of the past,

framed, so that they don’t escape from memory.

The only woman he once truly loved,

the only friend in whose warmth he once rejoiced,

smiling, eternally, to him,

but feel not his presence.

Only he, feels theirs.

Objects, things of youth, hang on the walls,

not being looked at,

but looking at him,

mocking him,

with inquisitive,

irritating,

gloating smile!

Too much time has passed,

too many twilights,

too much silence.

And no sense,

no meaning of this life,

has yet emerged in the horizon of age.

A bitter world,

a manipulative world,

a whole scam!

A game of fooling and of stupidity!

An everlasting yearning,

an honest, deep longing,

an unquenchable thirst,

for great truths,

for great Human things,

for embracing the world,

for giving and giving,

for the sweetest love!

The last thing to do;

he rises before dawn,

calm and cool as if frost,

with a soul floating slowly, gently, and yet boldly.

And here on the terrace lies his only remaining friend,

the gentle, cozy, small chair,

that looks at the outer horizon without desires,

without hopes,

without vision.

There stands the house of solitude,

the only home for an only man!

The last resort of rest and comfort,

after the years have passed,

imperceptibly it seems.

The last thing to do;

he rises one day before dawn and he burns the house!

With everything in it!

He sets the whole house on fire.

He hears the crackling of the wood

as the fire grows and feeds on every object, and ever memory.

And he stands at a distance,

watching it burning,

bending,

falling,

smoking,

releasing itself into fumes and flames;

in the air it goes.

It’s no more worm;

now, it’s hot,

fire;

he feels its wild reflection on his face and forehead,

the last intimate touch,

before everything goes to wreckage.

He gives the burning home his back,

calm and cool as if frost,

with steps moving slowly, regularly, and yet definitely;

he fares away into the horizon that,

for too long,

he gazed at with his little, cozy, homely chair.

The last thing to do:

he has become young,

once more.

The sun,

rises.

 Maysara Omar

October 2012

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