Dry tears

I can see the box
Closed and sealed
Cleaned and polished to perfection
By valiant soldiers,
By mothers of despair,
By fathers of disbelief,
By the lost boy looking for his parents,
By the old dancer improving is art,
By the shoemaker screaming to god,
By the priest puzzled by temptation,
By me,
By you…
Every inch of my body
And every ounce of my soul
Pleads for emancipation!
Just to be told in the end
That only death is free.
What?!
Is that correct or are you just trying to confuse me?
To amuse me in a cordial play
Written by dark angels
Who sold their god in the street markets
For a few grains of sand…
Can’t you see?! Can’t you see?!
The stars dimming and the Sun unfeeling
To our condition?
Let me tell you about sad warriors
And lost battles.
Empty shelves and dry tears,
Bullet holes and tepid fears.
And the death of innocence in small dour faces,
Seldom bodies betrayed by the solitude and ignorance
Of a bored craftsman
Looking vaguely, unworriedly at our insanity.
The child’s dream surrounded by unwelcomed guests
And the placid death wish of retribution!
Ahmed! Ahmed!
Where are you my soul brother?
Companion of my longest and darkest hours!
The sharer of my grief and despair!
The mirror of my spiritual individual!
The collector and righter of wrongs of my earthly body!
I can see the box,
Once again I see it...
Sealed, cleaned and polished
By a secret divine messenger…
I cannot cry
My tears are dry,
Caged and belted continuously against the wall.
I stare the sky
Oh Philistia, I stare your sky!
And everything else seems so small
And nothing can destroy our love
Not even this cold and gloomy wall!