I am a worker,
a worker with black skin and a black mask turning to the sun
The sun goes down while I am still searching,
searching for another space for dreaming.
For dreaming, these cities need to be freed from all the garbage.
Garbage has covered my history and sieged my world.
My world will rise up and bury all the garbage except for the last bell.
The last bell will be rung once and then turned into a bowl for water.
Water will suffice for life.
For life, we do not need holy men, sacred books, and golden ornaments.
I am a worker armed with a will, a hope, and a spade.
A spade is all I need for bringing down, cleaning, and building,
building a world in which the temples will be the streets.
The streets will be the city’s poetry for my body.
My body, armed with a steel spade, has already buried all their bells except for one.
One bell is all I need to announce the end of their history.
The end of their history will be the beginning of my world.
My world will need no poetry for it will be poetic.
Poetic it will be the blackness of its nights and the sparkle of my skin under the sun.
The sun and I will rise tomorrow for a world without nightmares, without garbage.
I am a worker who is not welcome anywhere in the holy land of holy men.
Holy men took my world and gave me a nightmare.
A nightmare is the world in which I am made to freely sell my body.
My body pays for everything by sweat and blood.
Sweat and blood for their gods and goons, mansions and minarets, bethels and battles, flags and tags, wigs and pigs, malls and walls.
Walls kept out my comrades, imprisoned my body, and caged my dreams.
My dreams of another world want me to bring down these damn walls.
Walls belong to their world, my hell.
Hell is having to accept enslavement in the name of their heaven.
I am a masked worker armed with my body and spade, will and hope, walking towards the other side of the pines.
On the other side of the pines, poetry is possible, and the body alone is sacred.
Sacred or not, on the other side of this nightmare, I will bury their histories along with their swords of enslavement and shields of horror.
Horror is to wait for another life, another promised heaven, and another slap on the demarked being.
Being there, on the other side of the pines, not the other side of death, is the single purpose of my single life.
My single life will smell like the pines, and the pines will suffice for poetry.
For poetry to be possible again, I am walking towards a revolution,
a revolution that has neither nationality nor color, neither god nor messenger, neither borders nor states, neither judges nor prisons.
Prisons were the holy lands, and prisoners were all those who dared to dream of another world.
Another world is breathing behind this smiley mask, a world without nightmares, without garbage.
Saladdin March 6, 2021
The Other Side of the Pines