Poetry by Tufik Shayeb

he tears out
all the inscription pages,
embarrassed by their love

only authors
have the right to sign books

their regards are like graffiti
on the oak-hewn beams
of a wizened church

they are heathens
to the typefaced word

having given more texts
than they have ever read,
like some hollow communion

they have added to each one,
rejoicing at their devotion

and congratulated each other
on sermons of great eloquence,
as if knowledge is a prayer

forgetting that a book
is most often just a book

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