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Bassel Almasalmeh

My City

I journeyed from my city
across the land of dreams
and found the destiny of those
who wandered away from their cities

my country is not Karl Marx
it is not the ancient past of politics
drowned in a sea of oblivion
staring in the light of shadows

England is my home, the past is my city
England will come as men of desperate needs
come to the rich, the land is my psyche
buildings are my nerves
rain is my blood
my city is standing before me

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Meeting Blake

November light, low and strong shadowing the room
leaving a blue haze around the room
reading in bed, books everywhere
when do I stop this game: consumption of books
when should I give reign to imagination
in front of me thousands of poems that
distract the soul, leaving me without purpose
more imagination, less meticulous attention
smoking the hours away, dawdling time
I wanted to write a poem. I lacked the courage
an epic breathless like Jerusalem
from a distance I saw a figure dressed in black
white collar, eyes wide shining like diamonds unmoving.
He saw me correcting my hand
with reassuring smile said: ‘Fire thy Imagination’

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