And this is when men first learnt to walk,
And this is when they broke their feet
With the signature of the fat man.
Now, we only take the ladder down,
We walk through the tunnel
And pass 500 years of fiery darkness.
The waters freeze still in the rivers and our veins
And the arms of our clocks go backwards: Twelve, eleven, ten, Phoenicia.
In each sip of wine the fat man takes,
3 souls die,
A most holy trinity
In the name of a most holy salvation.
One sip, two sips, three sips, Phoenicia.
This is how the oasis of the desert disappears: The fat man drinks it
And says it is only to keep us from drowning;
But we know, we have seen devastation hiding Between our floor tiles
And in our veins and our curtain fringes.
We have heard
that the smell of death is awful;
the fat man finds its gradual spreading
mirrored in the breadcrumbs on his lap
Bread, cheese, wine, Phoenicia.
Israa Hamze is nineteen. She’s an English Literature student at the University of Balamand.