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The Map (Poem)-خريطة عمري

When I examined the map of myself,
I wept. I cursed the seas and oceans
of love.
All the suffering of souls, every unfinished,
prayer, every unwritten poem, and every
unread letter.
I felt there was nothing that knew me; nothing
that could make me cry, or live through
the storm.

When I reflect on the map of myself,
all the colors are mixed, and all the
measurements are lost.
The shores have disappeared:
The sea has turned red, the years have
become blue, the shores black, and the
tears yellow.
The world’s borders are nothing but thorns.
Thorns that have bled my feet, and have carved
a dark color into my eyes.

My heart has become a broken mirror, forgotten
inside an abandoned purse.
The purse was covered with dust and hidden in a
far-away train station where no one comes or goes.

When I fold the map of myself, it refuses to return
to its shelf. It becomes a speck of dust.
When I try to burn this map, it protests, declaring
its boredom and disgust; it vanishes leaving me with
my loneliness beside the cold fireplace,
feeding upon time.

S.A. Kornas

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