End of the Game

The lovers 
passed through, downcast, 
disgraced by their untimely rhapsodies. 
The alleys 
were left with no murmurs and no sound of footsteps. 

The soldiers 
passed by, shattered, 
weary 
on scrawny horses, 
faded rags of ousted pride upon their spears. 

What do you gain boasting 
to the world 
when 
every particle of dust on your cursed path damns you?

What do you gain from trees and orchards 
when 
you speak to the jasmine,
holding a scythe in your hand? 

Where you have stepped, 
plants 
refrain from growing 
since you never believed 
in the virtues of water and earth. 

Alas! Our story 
was the faithless ballad of your soldiers 
returning 
from the conquest of the harlots’ fortress. 

Wait for what the curse of the night shall make of you:
mothers in black,
mourning the most beautiful offspring of the wind and the sun,
have yet to lift their heads
from their prayer rugs.