Keep her locked in an eternal smile, that loving gaze
you see in your mind’s mined cave deep within your Self,
or in the symbol on the solid wooden surface.
Let her sing, but from her nether-world into yours.
Silence the singing icon to keep it alive,
never conjure the image or form it
in this foggy existence.
You kill the icon when playing Pygmalion.
Strength lies in the centuries-old wood, solid-tude in solidity,
and purity in the hardness within its heart of gold.
There’s reality in imagination and more life in stillness,
One that is beyond the tangible and breathing.
Glossolelic, it speaks in echoes from the outback of non-air.
When gods materialize, they die.
Only to be born again…
Roula-Maria Dib (20th century) Lebanon
Source: Poethead
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