Classic Poem

So tired, your footsteps drag
toward death,
so anxious, but you pretend calm,
you feign strength, Husain Ben Mardan.

But the refuge you sought,
the shelters are closed. All help fled.
Who would share death with the dying,
Ben Mardan?

Stripped and alone,
your huge frame, that bulk, squeezed
through death's door, you feign strength.

But every pool of water where you bend
to quench your fear
sprouts a skin of leaping flames.

And you surrender, foresaking
the numbers, the conquered sums,
to drop them one by one.

The road to zero is a miracle,
Ben Mardan, and you own the road.
You alone own regret.
You can meet, head-on,
that dread you have always feared.

The moment of revelation has arrived
and only you have the power
to hear, touch, feel it.
Only you can see it.

Now only you know if footsteps are possible
without feet
and without ground.

The secret of death is yours alone
to possess.

And as the unknown creeps toward you
you rise among truths
stripped of pretense.

The road to zero is a miracle.
And what of fear now?

You who never acknowledged fear,
now you are surrounded by something
beyond measure which
erases all paths where you moved
except the road back to your youth.
And there you are on it, barefoot,
the collar of your shirt gaping.

Walking past
the faces,
the years,
the women,
until you arrive, Husain Mardan
with hair grown to your shoulders,
beating the road with a stout cane,
the road between Dayala and Baghdad,
to climb a ladder
which like all our ladders,
is placed vertically.
(And was this how we planned to welcome death?)

One day we tied the bells of our names
on the tree of death and waited for the wind.
And the wind came.

Do we exaggerate our vigor in those times?
Or were they truly the years of heroes?
When did the ladders fall,
break, while we crawled toward fear?

Remember the welcome we planned for death?
Every time the wind whistled
whoever heard his name ringing would go.

Those were years of happiness, Ben Mardan.
Man and tide fastened those bells for the winds.
We hid the smallest bell, the death bell
in thick branches.

You spent your life perfecting that bell
and its hanging, its size, its sway.
Then widening your eyes, you waited
in alarm for its ring.

Meanwhile what did you reap, Ben Mardan?

You played with the toy of your life like a child;
like a child you were bored and broke the toy
dreaming of the time
you would be the working
government official
buying the new suit,
finally, not owing,
but being owed!

But before the sleeves of that dream suit
could be soiled, Ben Mardan, the knock came.

Before it was time to be paid what was owed you,
the knock.

The gong of your death was rung,
O Emperor,
O two-month employee.