Thursday, August 1, 2019




The cemetery, yawning in front of my balcony,
wants to sleep early....
It ... didn’t take its sleeping pills as it does every night.
It is still sculpturing the hanging silence in the place
with the easiness of a swing.
And digging so that the bodies of the borrowed amazement
are driven into her stomach.
It looks from afar...... The moon will guard its children.
The grass is spending the night with threads of light
whose breath is confused.
Behind the devious door, like a moment of silence,
It is ....sure that whoever walks through this devious door,
will hear the talk of the dead, and fall asleep...


"Baudelaire" is the one who has illuminated my writings.
I was like an ant in a haystack writing with a cane....
That’s why I can’t stop thinking about him
And the flowers of evil that he planted in my way,
had it not been him, the clouds inside me would have never rained.
I was afraid of his scattered thorns beneath the words.
He even was accompanying me with a bouquet of roses in his hands
And he was telling me :
“-Dear poet, spin around yourself…you are not alone
the earth is spinning around just like you.
We'll go together, over there, to hell,
and we will rest in these comfortable poems.”
But I didn’t go with him, I just took the flowers from his hands,
and I went to hell by myself.


It’s always such a great pleasure

to throw (Shamborska) out of the night’s window;

and leave this whiteness to ask her poems,

which got numb on my table :

" I’m not the one teaching the words about letters

so teach me how to write a poem.

(Shamborska) ! Why do you keep adding salt to my blood ?

Let me borrow from your poems a new plight

so that I can tease poetry in its walk …

That’s how I like it; to choke between the words’ teeth" .

but now … Yes now I can barely breathe;

(Shamborska)! I’m begging, take my fingers

As a certain betrayal is needed in order to write a poem .


Every night I have a scary dream.

So I wake up, frightened, as if I’m seeing it for the first time;

a cloud, hanging from a tree,

climbing the night with a shadow around her neck,

from which light rain is falling

to wet the words lying in the garden.

When it thunders, and the twilight’s prophets come down

to adorn the festivities of the mud,

It shivers, just like I do,

disappears under a branch...

....... and sleeps.


FETHI SASSI: He is a Tunisian poet. Born in 1.6.1962, Nabul, Tunisia. He is a writer of prose poetry, short poems and haiku. He is a translator of all his poems to English and for others great poets.

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