#The Art of Conjugating Souls#

[نورالدين بليغ]

#The Art of Conjugating Souls#

O my friend, life, in its great, sprawling school,

Has shown me how the human spirit blends,

Across the words, in the strange syntax rule

Of fragile hearts, and the false guise it lends.

For in this market where all things are shifting,

Not everyone is cut from the same cloth,

But rather terms in the sentence of time lifting,

Where each must settle, and endure its wrath.

Some well deserve the Nominative Case,

Like a true subject at the discourse's fore,

A noble Actor, in creation's space,

Who holds his head up high, and fears no door.

Pure lights they are, illuminating the way,

If injustice strikes and causes them to mourn,

Their virtue is the strength that holds its sway,

A crown of cheerfulness on them is worn.

Others demand the Accusative's weight,

Upon whom life's harsh action must descend,

Often quite weak, or full of false conceit.

The Excepted, alas, who struggle without end.

They deck the surface with a clear Weakness sign,

But the core is frail, corrupted at the slight.

The fleeting glare they see as quite divine,

A summer mirror trapping the lost in light.

There are those who prefer the Possessive Case,

Or are dragged there by failure and by pain,

Like the Genitive Noun, holding its dark place,

Heavy, yet rooted where the plain remains.

They add a meaning, they provide a key,

Yet often linger in the shade forlorn,

Clothed in a broken heart, a wounded state we see,

Their truth may bend, but the connection's not torn.

Still others merit the Fracture, sharp and deep,

Which sadness in its mourning holds upon the sill,

Like the last letter that for its misery must weep,

Choked by a knot in throat against its will.

Their luck is shattered like a glass so fine,

Victims of fate, or shadows of vile slight,

An eternal crack upon their soul's design,

No joyful accent ever sets them right.

For some, Negation is the standard plea,

Like the "No" that drives the foul offense away.

Their presence is denied for honour's dignity;

No goodness hoped for, and no truth holds sway.

Like instruments of a verb with naught of worth or end,

Faces devoid of light, stories without a rhyme,

They are banished by forms that naught can amend,

For all good faith has perished in their crime.

The worst is he whose Place is void and vain,

Like the parenthetical phrase that brings no aid,

Or the excess bulk that only loads the main.

Suspended 'twixt being, and the mark displayed,

Refuse frozen upon the margin's white,

No rise, no deed, no break, no memory clear.

Vain echoes lost in the sage, silent night,

Dumb rocks which the polluted ocean made dear.

Thus, life bestowed upon me this oracle:

The heart must be a master of mankind's grammar,

To separate the core from what is fickle,

To part the true from falsehood's lingering clamour.

The lofty meanings which true honesty holds,

From words cast down into oblivion's pit.

Friend, be thou strong, and let thy spirit be bold,

Never to be a term without a Writ,

Whose function would remain a cursed riddle,

In the noble lexicon where Man is fit.

#NOUR EDDINE BALIGH#