End of the Game
The lovers
passed through, downcast,
disgraced by their untimely rhapsodies.
The alleys
were left with no murmurs and no sound of footsteps.
The soldiers
passed by, shattered,
weary
on scrawny horses,
faded rags of ousted pride upon their spears.
What do you gain boasting
to the world
when
every particle of dust on your cursed path damns you?
What do you gain from trees and orchards
when
you speak to the jasmine,
holding a scythe in your hand?
Where you have stepped,
plants
refrain from growing
since you never believed
in the virtues of water and earth.
Alas! Our story
was the faithless ballad of your soldiers
returning
from the conquest of the harlots’ fortress.
Wait for what the curse of the night shall make of you:
mothers in black,
mourning the most beautiful offspring of the wind and the sun,
have yet to lift their heads
from their prayer rugs.