Adel Bishtawi

Of all men,
Nobody more than poets,
Ever loved women.
Their skin is not actually silk,
Nor their lips petals,
Or their eyes shooting stars,
And their kiss,
Sweeter than the sweetest wine,
No less,

But they are women,
Not exactly edible,
But close enough,
And some have curves,
That can drive a saint saintless,
And sane men numb and senseless,
With just a twist or a sway,
In a very pleasant way,
Only Satans more than angels,
Are able to do,
More sinful than the ultimate sin,
That can take men to Heaven.

Women invented gods,
To help conquer men,
And like cattle,
With stifled moans,
Men are driven to temples,
To pray for a doll,
Or a pile of chiseled stones,
Halleluiah, they repeat, Halleluiah,
For what? They’ve no idea?
Or else!
No food for you; no sex,
Their wives told them,
And sheepishly said, “yes.”

So, are they liars,
All poets, I mean?
Far from it, it’s all true.
Poets don’t see women,
What they see are dreams,
Enshrined in a promise,
And a most mysterious puzzle.
People read the words,
But poets write the dreams.
It’s not sex, it’s not the food,
It’s not the laughs,
It’s not the mood,
What women give men,
Is something magical,
Neither is aware,
Of its essence,
Or why?

It’s eternity,
No less.
That’s why Arabians say,
Those who have children,
Will always have the bless,
Because they’ll never die.
For through the eyes,
Of their kids,
The future shall be seen,
And its days shall be lived,
Again, again and again,
Every time a child is born,
A new life to them is given.
Poets know this,
And that’s why,
They’ll always love women,
More than anybody else.
Women are a puzzle, all right,
But isn’t that what creation is,
Of all puzzles the ultimate?
God created the universe,
And women created us,
And that’s why,
We’ll never die,
And if men are kind to them,
And love them above all else,
They will happily continue,
To do just this.

Dedication: Mum. Image credit Sonia D., private share.

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