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The Encounter

I was alone and weary and he wanted a drink
Talk was what I needed, I didn't want to think
Outside the storm howled, inside hissed the danger
Stranded in the land where everyone is a stranger
"My hands," he said, "look at my hand
Do you see the cut in my right palm?
He was coming at me with a knife.
I missed the wrist and held the blade.
Then there he was bleeding into the sand.
An assassin never loses his calm,
Even when he is losing his life
In the land where help is always late"

"Meurtrier, voleur, assassin"

"My lips," he said, "look at my lip
The lower one - do you see the teeth mark?
Love breeds hate, she told me crying
As she bit me hard cutting the flesh
I dove into the fog to find my ship
When she swung the razor in an arc
Then she lay there, quietly dying
In the land where blood is always fresh"

"Putain, vagabonde, fou Apache"

He told me stories that night in the old inn
Of lovers, assassins, absinthe and gin
Of women who can waste men with their eyes
And men who confess the truth with their lies

In the land where you always live in fear
But steel your gaze, harden your heart
and never shed a tear.

Ruhi Yaman 14 July, 2007

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