Damn this desire to fly.

Damn these wings.


This isn’t a role in a play so I can take the wings off when the curtain comes down.

They aren’t wings of wax which will melt in the morning on my way to work.

Neither are they invisible wings whose existence requires long discussion to prove.

They are neither useful for statues, nor for the metallic icons on top of car hoods.

They are wings designed to fly.

Clothes can’t hide them nor can darkness ease their existence.

It won’t clear your conscience to flutter them for a short while in the morning in front of the bathroom mirror.

They can’t be used to pick something up nor to cast greetings on the days passing by.

They are here, tensing between the shoulders, torturing you for eternity:

You, the freak fed on reptiles and mammals’ blood.

They are wings to torture you, unless you use them to fly now, at this moment

Without luggage

Or return tickets

On your long journey that never ends.


Translated by Rana Zaitoon

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