I have waited for you for fifty seconds and six hours, then four minutes, yet you were absent for a meeting I organized for the intoxicated, and the communists of the evil comrade's bar. We were like you, like the absent-minded sometimes, at "Al-Rawda" then "Laterna". However; I have just forgotten my left foot stuck in the bus entrance that the driver would have chopped me, had I not talked to him about the perfume of Barda River and the nightclubs spread over of the same number as the security branches. After gulping two boxes of bluffed water, it was better for us to try some Vodka made according to religious standards that match the surrealists' recipes of the poetry mixed with my mood. I liked it the moment a comrade has invented while praying with the birds in front of worship places as he recalled exuberant rivers of honey and wine that have overflown from the feminine suite in heaven. No worries at all you gorgeous drunk, I almost became professional in the magic washed by stupid love, and have just grabbed a sniper, then a missile that did not explode. I also asked a woman that "Natasha Nation" sent, to burst me with a "pornographic" kiss, as means of support until you come over to a fool awaiting you near the ascending Jasmine street as I wish. Oh goodness, yesterday a missile struck your kitchen. I started writing a death announcement after receiving letters from your girlfriends who soak my mail with tears that bathed me. I also received poems that spoke of your heroic role while preparing "Yabrak" in an incredible speed for more than seventy jerks writing on the walls a commiseration of a beauty they have never met except in my poems. However; I knocked them down with your description thus they were forced to consider you the beloved of that guy who makes you hate the moment you ever met him. Nevertheless; I will prepare an emotional report shredding your clothes then I will tear your notebook that stealthily came into my pocket, asking my fingers to write, on your behalf, the story of boys that chase you every time I turn my back to get the lazy bus. And as usual, you write two thousand and one million pages of scandals against me. Despite it all, the friends transferred honestly the monody rituals I performed for you when they discovered that your house had no kitchen. Adding to that, your house was already deserted. The night flocks have borrowed it, those with beards that attract leftovers, flies, and black "Jihad" fantasy. So where are you amidst all of this boyish mania where I eternalize my memory within? I am in a non-existence distinguished by dust and victims' pictures, a fool that calls himself a leader of the biggest police station at Al-Muhajireen, had killed; I mean the neighborhood where "Juha" statue emerges from the middle. This "Juha" is standing still since the shoe reformation partisan movement. Of course, I mean him the one standing at the latest dead fashion shops in "Sham" Saleheya where it is said that a lion was terrified by a mouse that turned into a fluffy rat living in the sewers. I have written you in so many times in the sacrificed cities, and then I have mocked myself on your behalf, as your stupid picture that I cherish slapped me, whenever I had a drink that twists our heads together. I mean, when I resort to a wind coming from your clutched body, I look like an engraved letter on scattered tombstones, although your breath is trapped in my sky. This scene wrecked me, like a smacked revelation, so I came back to life beside the one who killed me, although I did not die like a passionate lover, nor did I smell chemical powder like those who suffocated at the shoulders of Damascus and Aleppo. So I will be away for twenty seconds and four days. I also left you a mattock and a field full of stones. Of course, this is not a punishment, but for not to be consumed by time. So if you feel bored, you will find me at "Verdi" bar or escorted at a police department.
About the Author: Ahmad Sleiman: A Syrian author and poet. His writings tackle various topics, such as civil rights. As a human rights activist, he worked as a free-lance human rights journalist. He left Syria to settle down in Beirut, Lebanon as if it was some sort if optional exile; it was a difficult choice for an 18-year-old to make after being arrested with a left-wing group. His crimes where nothing but reading and publishing banned books and attending cultural gatherings. Sometimes the crime was meeting some friends. Crimes like this were enough to make people perish in concentration camps. He lived in Beirut from 1990 until 2003, during this period he was active in many cultural fields. He launched ALAN "NOW," the center through which he published various books. The threats to his personal safety continued, so he had to move to Germany. He published five poetry books, two narrative works, and an intellectual book, which mainly talks about democracy and the future: The Secret Grandchild. Numbness of Forgetfulness, Fire Flowers, I Form, The Dream's Hat, The Controversy of the Present, Romantique 2011, and afflicted love. The author is also the editor and administrator of a number of websites including Opinion Activist at www.opl-now.org