Photo by Jimmy Nelson/Teneus
A RHETORICAL THEORY
If words were clothes we buy
to cover our nudity,
If they were flowers
or cities
or silent minarets,
If they were bread
we line up to buy
as we inhale its delicious smell,
If they were fish in whose eyes
we search for the lustre of death,
If they were birds whose wings we cut off
to fool around with their impossible flying,
If they were springs in which we put our open palms
so water may flow cautiously through our fingers,
If they were a high mountain that we climb –
a high, solid, and smoothly polished mountain
whose surface we peck at with our breaths
and whose shadows we scratch with our glassy sweat
and from which we fall many times only with our fears
without leaving the chasm,
If words were . . .
Mohammed Achaari
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