I stood silently for a while,
in the plush neighborhood,
paying
homage to a garbage can,
thinking of the recent demise
of the foremost Syrian poet
this century,
if not many more centuries,
an old man who had
passed away,
not too
unexpectedly,
a mere two days ago,
of heart
failure.
The very old man who
had inspired many of us,
for a long period of time,
with
his poetry of love,
belonging,
and patriotism.
Yet another
one of those old Arab men
who had
mastered so well the art
of denuding souls,
including their own,
with words,
simple
well-chosen
words.
They named a street after him,
appropriately enough,
mere
hours after his death,
or so it was said,
and his funeral today will be
attended
by the cream of Arab societies,
naturally,
politicians,
civil servants,
artists,
even men of religion,
and many, many women I am sure.
All will say eulogies for him.
All will sincerely mourn his death.
But to me,
it will all be pomp and
circumstance,
without any meaning,
or significance
whatever.
For the truth of how things really
are
in Arab societies
today,
is
reflected right there in front of my saddened eyes
on that little
hapless leaflet,
announcing the man’s death,
appropriately posted
on the garbage can.
Note: Written May 3,
1998, in honor of the late Syrian poet Nizar Qabbani.