Night and Day / Salah Abdel Sabour

In this way the day slipped 
off the slope of the sun 
and evening fell 
like a collapsed wall. 
Sky and earth: one embrace. 
Windows of the sick, 
lights on bridges, eyes of gendarmes, 
and minarets blink now. 
In the market place walls of darkness 
are piled up at the doors 
and the dark walls, stacked together, 
collapse like tombstones from a fallen mountain. 
The night ends with a delicate cloud 
tinged pink, like a petal 
lost in the darkness as day rushes forth. 
(0 twilight red, color of 
my life, that was a real goodbye we said. 
Night has lost you. Day has lost you. 
Memory alone brings you back.) 
In this way night dies 
with the sun springing to mount the sky 
and the streets inhaling 
the sounds of din, 
braziers of light spilling 
illumination to make shadows 
piercing the stones. 
O noon, you fill my heart 
with fear and grief, showing 
me more than I want to see. 
Blessings on you, noontime blaze, 
your light stings the eyes and 
dims sight, changes houses 
and people into solid cubes 
of pastel stone. 
And this is how the delicate color gray is born: 
Weariness creeps into the veins 
of the sun at day's end, 
street noises dissipate 
and are absorbed into the 
soft contours of gray, 
(the color of my days 
not days lived in life, 
but in contemplation). 
Now dusk. Now a parting glance 
from the sun leaning fatigued 
against the hills. 
Now, blackness. 
And my life passes while I 
live in expectation, 
waiting for 
one radiant moment in 
the darkness of night 
or one quiet moment in 
the clamor of day.