One thousand apologies [Archives:2003/658/Culture]

Irena Knehtl
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I shall begin with the Creator of clouds, she begun to tell. I will tell about Him who formed the clouds and filled them with water. Added the rising of winds, the bringing of rain and cold. He who created man from the water The wind now was blowing against them. Such as the will of the Most High. As pleasure comes only after its absence.
Even after many years one could see through the holes of her ears the green valley, tall palm trees heavy with gold brown dates. Caravans. Camels in the mist. White camel with white lock on her back, nobody has ever seen. But which seemed to move forward in time with rise and fall of its rhythms.
Her eyes carried a magic secret for the earth to become what it was
For oceans to part. For mountains to rise.
History here smelled of incense. Like music smells held memories about,
Earth and the sky. Green valley of long songs Surrounded by desert and death.
The frankincense was sweet and clear. It brought notions of paradise long after hope and dreams had died. Disappointment still pained. It burnt like the sands that surrounded them.
Lava and Sands.
Singing Sands.
Caravans of Dreams..
They sang songs of desire for all things white and beautiful. Like white camel with white lock on its back, that nobody has ever seen. Tall palm trees with languid shade and soft murmur. Could almost hear them drink the rain.
Shades of oblivion.
Revolution what is revolution. The wind blew through the valley which was still a long green ribbon. Did you hear about the revolution
They stood silent. Date palms stood thick around the village stretching far into open country. The sun glare now was fierce and there was hot wind that carried with it powdery dust. The wind increased into violence. The sound of it echoing emptily among the trees. The glare of the sun disappeared; its weak light still penetrates through the tall palm trees from time to time. The air smelled of the dark colored dust. There was nothing dream-like in this scene.
They heard about the revolution.
They carried madness in them. She still remembers his eyes were like two palm groves at the hours of dawn. His shawl in pale color of the moon and long brown stripes along with traveled caravans.
Caravan of Dreams.
He noticed everything. Each palm tree. Each kind of fruit. Each cloud. The sky without stars. Even the white camel with the white lock on its back which nobody ever saw. That he will ask the night for her to stretch from the East, he promised.

His Love. His Madness. His Hope. His joy.
All this was happening in the green valley long, as green ribbon and long songs.
She still remembers the way he used to speak.
In the valley of long songs where
People live without eyes, and struggle,
The Millions who run without shoes,
The Millions who do not eat bread,
The Millions who live at night in houses of coughing.
What followed was that destruction and pleasure was pair. Devastating gardens and orchards had been laid to waste. Uprooting of the trees. Walnuts, century old, demolished hundred of houses. But their eyes and hearts remained closed.
What was gained and what was lost. Principles. They were always the most fragile of mans possession. He chose truth above life. It became clear later that truth lived somewhere else. The whole taste of live has been spoiled.
What followed that the valley as long green ribbon became valley of sad dates.

Send me poems with happy end she wrote. Poems in which lovers meet.
Poem in which Freedom tastes like gold brown dates and Peace is the white camel with white lock on its back which nobody ever saw.
But she waited for many years for him until she had seen her hair turn silver in the loneliness of the night. But let us thank God for having made us the gift of
Silence that speech is to have meaning.
War that peace is to have meaning.
Death that life is to have meaning.
Night that day is to have meaning.
She remembers how the white flat roofs felt asleep under heaps of dates. How they left their shops and went to meet the moon. They did not believe the butterflies. It seemed now like night dream never dreamed. Were forgotten like a drop of water in a ranging torrent. For their sorrows will never be sad enough. Their joys never happy enough. Their dreams never big enough. Their lives never important enough.
To matter.
They belong nowhere. Now is the song of those who have no songs. We travel like other people she remembered. But we return nowhere. As traveling is the way of clouds.
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[archive-e:658-v:13-y:2003-d:2003-08-11-p:culture]