There’s a strange man on a balcony, peeling off his skin and sending it to the wind. With every departure, i see the wound widen, deepen, lengthen, it grows. The man grows, swinging between a valley and a mountaintop; an iceberg with his hands out, glowing and blistered, taking waves in and peeling skin off.
The sun sets and he’s poor, he leaves the balcony for the sidewalk as mages from near and far make their way to him.
They hold him in their hands. They pass by him, looking for him.
Battered by the journey, they bow their heads, faultily stumble upon the beggar, and all they see is a big lump of wounds.
They surrender, relax their hands and the bits of skin slip into his bowl. He is there in the bowl, He is there at the sidewalk and yet they are not alike, he is in both and yet in neither.
With prayers and silence, he tries to sow some of the skin back and fails, other bits crawl back on him by themselves like stubborn parasites so he takes shelter in the moon as he remains dangled from himself.
The sun rises again, he goes back up to the balcony, trailing himself, dragging his skin up the stairs so he can get back to his daily liturgy. Peeling off the new, never shaking off the old.
Where once laid a strange man, now lays an iceberg, the waves keep on crashing on it and go on their way; and yet never does it think of keeping its skin, not once does it think of dropping its hands.

Troubled by all this, i lift my eyes up to stare at my hands, and the taste of salt in my mouth is overwhelming. . .

Eddy Abi Younes