Poem by: Giuma Bukleb
If that part of the river Thames, below “Kingston Bridge”, where the trees are willingly anchored, on both banks,
It might have glanced, on that hour of the evening, the alertness of my anxiety,
It might have noticed, at the same moment, how the desire of the poem, setting its traps in my blood for the seagulls’ flutter,
And pigeons’ revelation!
If that part of the river Thames, where “Kingston Town” is floating like a paper boat, had eyes
It might have sighted, with astonishment, how my body beats with the fever of the rhythm,
And would have realised how my soul becomes soft and pure,
Like the coo of pigeons!
If that part of the river Thames, in those corners of my memory, where scattered thirsty villages, hang and swing, with insomnia, in the nights of Jabel Nafousa, where Misrata is bleeding from a distance of a breathe of a weddings’ ululations,
It might have hunted some of the brightness of my joy in a sky of fear and clouds!
If that part of the river of my youth, before the Bedouins arrived to the streets of Tripoli on the back of their luxury cars, and shoulder mounted rifles that are hungry for killing,
In the time of a bloody Arab spring,
In that spot of the day, in that space, far away from London’s bustle, which is called “Kingston Promenade”, on that very hot day, where trees are willingly anchored, on the Thames banks,
The boat of my life,
Into the bushes of the days..