The Ticking of Death

Tomorrow you will not be the one

who bestrode the world like a Colossus,

the predator you thought yourself to be

in a world once yours,

becomes merely a deferred biological feast,

in a plot of land measured to your body.

The dust will show no favour,

whether you were an emperor,

or a mere non-entity,

rather, to it you shall return, return—

just as you were first molded.

Your grandeur is spurious… ephemeral,

your self-idol, sanctified by your vain desires,

will crumble before the might of your last agony,

You will see the sun of your lungs sink into dusk,

To firmly believe your hubris will rise no more;

the terminal bubris—a solemn funeral…

so solemn, had been a masterful hypocrite,

but if your folly was too crude for such art,

you will be consigned to the grave in haste

In both cases, you are a tasteless joke

that dust narrates to itself

within a fresh grave.

Parade your shadow no longer;

one day, you’ll heed death’s steady tick,

as it unfastens the buttons of your fleshy shirt

to liberate the soul from your world’s cage—

the very world by which you were beguiled.

Then you’ll be rammed into a narrowed grave,

taught by the clay how you must bow,

so think not so, O Man

that marble will immortalize your name,

or the gold you hoarded will bring you grace

Far-fetched…

Neither shall you be immortalized,

nor the hubris you raised

with untruth endures.

Mustafa Abdulmalek Al-Sumaidi| Yemen