Bread

From early dusk the day was inscrutable The sun shows up, lazy as usual A mineral ash, eastward, blocks the horizon. . . In the veins of clouds In household pipes The water was hard. . . A desperate autumn in the life of Beirut Death spread from the palace to the radio to the salesman of sex To the vegetable market What is it wakes you now? Exactly five o'clock And thirty people killed Go back to sleep It is a time of death and a time of fire Ibrahim was a painter He painted water He was a deck for lilies to grow on And terrible if woken up at dawn But his children were spun of lilac and sunlight They wanted milk and a loaf of bread Inscrutable day. My face A telegram made of wheat in a field of bullets What is it wakes you now Exactly five o'clock And thirty people killed Bread never had this taste before This blood this whispering texture this grand apprehension complete essence this voice this time this colour this art this human energy this secret this magic this unique movement from the cavern of origin to the gang war to the tragedy of Beirut At exactly five o'clock Who was dying? Into his hands Ibrahim took the last color Color of the secrets in the elements A painter and a rebel he painted A land teeming with people, oak trees, and war Ocean waves, working people, street vendors, countryside And he paints In the miracle of bread