I was told stories of the One and only,
Beloved, in form, also ghostly.
The dream begins, awake yet sleepy.
The narrator utters, echoing was the weepy
Repeating, rewinding and repeat,
Happily, ever after, we never meet.
To live again, drink and eat.
A story, the same. One of deceit.
The dream stopped.
The narrator perished.
In the ashes of fires,
Lit and hurriedly vanished.
Seeking the Beloved,
In the dark, famished.
Suddenly!
From what seemed deceased,
I smell a sprout of something.
Still, I remained,
Alert, tracking.
My senses aroused,
The veil lifting.
This smell, I know,
The eyes gleaming.
Divine Folie, I heard,
This is only dreaming.
Selfish, with heart,
I commence, celebrating.
Maya Abou Chedid
