Your life sounds like a weeping cello,
with a frayed bow,
you strike the bellows of pain with all you have,
assuming you’re making music,
sorrow never makes for fatherly fortress,
all you had to do was change keys,
and your audience would have been different.
I don’t remember climbing your shoulders,
holding you around the neck,
kissing your lips,
or creating vacuum locks between our palms.
But aren’t you lucky, you have a son that prays,
that on the day of judgement you’ll be sitting
on his shoulders,
that has smitten his neck so you can walk across
the sword bridge over hell,
that has honoured your feet by servitude to his Lord,
that on that day, will be pulling you by the hand.
-Wesam El dahabi