[]
His hands handled bindings and binding.
He worked off dust, bent pages
he kept his manuscripts indescript as ever and always
His building was the oldest in Damascus
His friends could make fun
of his tribe, Malungians, or run across
short divides to cousins and lovers
who secretly love to read or pray in public
My lover was a 6 fingered man who loved books
His store was not fit for “protection”
He was personally violently attacked
Suddenly
His books were stolen and unfairly
distributed to wealthy
Muslim folks who keep it safe
from any Turkish or Kurdish influences
The skies cannot know the words he does
the binding he fixed
[]
he gives
of all the fairness
his onyx eyes
Must have known
to begin with.
