Kay Hassan
On efface le jour comme un brouillon.
Le soleil clignote, pixel fatigué.
Je cherche une histoire —
elle s’est dissoute dans la lumière bleue.
L’ombre parle en copie carbone :
ce que tu vois n’est jamais toi.
Un rire résonne
dans le fichier corrompu du monde.
La vérité ?
Peut-être un bug qui persiste.
Kay Hassan
The city hums, half-present, half-ancient.
Someone edits the lights
into a better shape.
My hands remember a screen
more clearly than a face.
I scroll for tenderness,
find only loading.
Memory is a remix —
who said what,
or did the algorithm dream us all?
Still, a voice leaves a trace:
"I was not here, ma'am, " I say
“Ungrateful son,”
Somewhere, a satellite agrees
kay Hassan
In the fevered haze of my fourth spring, I dropped to my knees upon the living flesh of the village playground—a sacred scar of earth cupped between the gnarled fingers of oaks older than God’s wrath. Their twisted limbs clawed at the sky like the blackened ribs of some fallen titan, whispering in a language of rustling leaves and creaking bone, a tongue as ancient as the slow, grinding teeth of the earth.
The trees stood as crooked kings, their bark etched with the scars of forgotten storms, their roots sunk deep into the molten dark where the world’s first fires still smoldered. Their branches sagged beneath the weight of centuries, heavy with the ghosts of summers past, their leaves trembling with secrets that would outlast the stars.
Around them, the playground sprawled—a kingdom of jagged, sun-warmed stones, their edges long since blunted by the savage hands of children who clambered over them like conquerors. The stones gleamed, slick with the sweat of a thousand afternoons, their surfaces worn smooth by the relentless tide of small, wild bodies. Laughter rang sharp as a blade against the silence, a bright and fleeting rebellion against the slow, inevitable crush of time.
The air was thick with the scent of crushed thyme and baked dust, a perfume that clung to the skin like a baptism, like a brand. It filled my lungs, hot and sweet, and for a moment, I believed—truly believed—that the world was unshakable, that the oaks would never fall, that the stones would never cool, that the laughter would never fade.
But time, patient and pitiless, was already moving beneath us, carving its name into the bones of the earth.
My small fingers, dusted with the fine, golden silt of the mountain, cradled marbles that shimmered like fragments of a forgotten cosmos—ruby, sapphire, emerald—each a tiny, self-contained universe, glinting with the promise of infinite wonder. They caught the sunlight in prisms of color, scattering rainbows across the earth, as if the heavens themselves had spilled their treasures into our hands. Among them, one reigned supreme: a blue and gold marble, its swirling depths a labyrinth of liquid light, a miniature galaxy spiralling within its glassy heart. It was no mere toy, but a talisman, a relic of a world trembling on the edge of fracture. Its surface held mysteries only my child’s heart could fathom—secrets of joy, of hope, of a father whose face was already fading into the haze of memory. That marble was my beacon, a radiant ember glowing against the faint, relentless murmur of war, a sound that slithered like smoke over the hills, distant yet inescapable, a shadow creeping closer with each passing day.
The air pulsed with the laughter of my friends, our voices weaving a fragile chorus of innocence, as if our games could ward off the encroaching darkness. We gathered in the playground each dawn, a band of small warriors armed with nothing but marbles and dreams, our bare feet kissing the earth, our hearts alight with the magic of childhood. We flicked our marbles with fervent reverence, each clink a vow to preserve this fleeting paradise, each roll a silent prayer that our village—our laughter, our home—might stand eternal against the tide of the world’s unraveling. The rules of our game were sacred, unwritten laws passed down through generations: a flick of the thumb, a steady hand, a whispered wish for victory. The marbles danced across the dirt, carving paths like comets, their collisions echoing with the purity of our joy.
Our village was a living hymn, its rhythms woven into the very bones of the earth. The playground was its beating heart, a sanctuary where children chased dreams under the watchful gaze of elders who sat beneath the broad, sheltering arms of oak trees, their bark etched with the wisdom of ages, their leaves whispering tales of seasons long past. The elders sipped tea from chipped porcelain cups, their voices low and melodic, recounting stories of harvests and heroes, of love and loss, their words blending with the hum of cicadas and the distant bleating of goats. Mothers wove baskets in the dappled shade, their fingers deft as they braided reeds into patterns as intricate as the lives they nurtured. Their songs drifted through the air like the scent of blooming jasmine, soft and sweet, threading through the afternoon like golden needles, stitching our days together with love.
The goats, grazing on the sun-drenched hills, added their own chorus, their bells tinkling like a gentle reminder of the world’s quiet beauty. The hills themselves were a tapestry of life—wildflowers bursting in reckless color, rocks worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain, and paths carved by the footsteps of those who had walked this land before us. Every evening, as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of amber and rose, I would sit at the feet of our village storyteller, a man whose presence seemed to anchor the earth itself. His name was Elias, though we called him Baba, a title of reverence that carried the weight of a grandfather’s love. His voice was a low, resonant river, carrying tales of prophets and poets, of courage and sacrifice, of gods and mortals who wrestled with fate under the same stars that watched over us. His eyes, dark as the night sky and just as infinite, seemed to hold the weight of centuries, and his words planted seeds of wonder in my soul, roots that would grow through the years, anchoring me even as the world crumbled.
That blue and gold marble was my treasure, a gift from my father before he vanished into the war’s hungry maw. He had pressed it into my palm one evening, his hands rough from work but gentle as they closed my fingers around it. “Keep this, my son,” he had said, his voice thick with a sadness I was too young to understand. “It’s a piece of the sky, a piece of me. Hold it tight, and I’ll always be with you.” I was three then, my memories of him fragmented—a warm laugh, a shadow against the firelight, the scent of tobacco and cedar on his clothes. At night, I clutched the marble in my palm, its cool weight a silent promise: He will return. The world will hold. Each dawn, I raced to the playground, my bare feet pounding the earth, my heart alight with the magic of rolling that marble, watching it spin and dance like a tiny star cupped in my hands. Its surface seemed to pulse with life, as if it carried the heartbeat of the mountain, the laughter of our games, the love of a father I barely remembered.
I dreamed of the marble’s journeys, imagining it held the spirit of our village—the songs of the mothers, the wisdom of the elders, the wild, untamed joy of our games. It was more than glass—it was my anchor, my hope, my quiet defiance against the whispers of war that slithered through our village like a cold, unseen wind. The other children had their treasures, too—marbles of green and amber, of cloudy white and fiery red—but none shone like mine, none held the weight of a heart’s fragile trust. We traded stories of our marbles’ powers, spinning wild tales of magic: mine could summon storms, I boasted, or guide lost souls home. Theirs could heal wounds or speak to the stars. Our voices rose in defiant harmony above the distant rumble—a sound we did not yet understand, a sound that grew louder with each passing day, like the heartbeat of a beast stirring in its sleep.
But childhood is a fleeting spark, a flame that burns bright but cannot withstand the storm.
The sky shattered with a howl that clawed at the soul of the earth, as if the heavens themselves had torn open to unleash a vengeful dirge. Shells screamed through the air, divine wrath made manifest, scattering death’s jagged teeth across our sanctuary. The playground dissolved into chaos—cries piercing the air like shattered glass, the earth trembling as if grieving its own destruction, the acrid stench of smoke thickening until it choked the very breath from our lungs. My heart stopped. My breath caught. My eyes locked onto my marble—my blue and gold star—slipping away in the churned dirt, its glow a desperate plea to be remembered amidst the ruin.
Through the tempest of screams and ash, Baba’s voice rose, deep as the roots of our mountain, eternal as the sky he seemed to command. “Run, my children, run!” he roared, his words a sacred hymn woven from love and terror, a beacon to pull us from the jaws of ruin. His figure stood tall against the chaos, his white robes stained with dust, his arms outstretched as if he could hold back the tide of destruction with the strength of his will alone.
My friends fled, their laughter drowned in the chaos, their small figures vanishing into the haze like ghosts scattered by the wind. But I stood frozen, my soul tethered to that tiny orb, my heart pounding as if it might burst from my chest. “My marble!” I sobbed, my voice a broken wail, raw with a grief too vast for my small frame. Baba’s eyes, heavy with the sorrow of a thousand lost homes, found mine, their warmth a fleeting shelter in the storm. “Run, my boy, run!” he pleaded, his voice a fire that burned through the fog of my fear, urging my legs to move.
“My marble!” I cried, tears scalding my cheeks, my hands clawing at the earth as if I could reclaim my shattered world. The dirt was warm beneath my fingers, but it was no longer the earth of my playground—it was a battlefield, a graveyard, a wound torn open in the heart of my home.
“Run, child, run! Soldiers are here—death is upon us!” he thundered, his voice a decree that shook the ground beneath my trembling feet, a command that carried the weight of all the stories he had ever told, all the lives he had seen fade.
“My marble!” I wailed, my heart tearing itself apart, each sob a wound for the loss of that small, radiant universe. It was not just a marble—it was my father’s promise, my mother’s embrace, the laughter of my friends, the soul of my village, slipping through my fingers like sand.
His rough hand, strong as the stones of our village, seized mine, yanking me from the dirt as my legs faltered. I stumbled after him, my head twisting back, my eyes locked on that marble—now just a flicker in the chaos, swallowed by the earth we’d once called ours. The soldiers stormed through, their boots pounding like war drums, their shouts a cruel requiem that drowned our cries. Their uniforms were the color of ash, their faces obscured by helmets that gleamed like the eyes of predators. They moved with a merciless precision, their rifles spitting fire that devoured our homes, our barns, our groves. The thatched roofs curled into ash, the oak trees groaned as flames licked their ancient limbs, and the mountain itself seemed to shudder under the weight of its own destruction.
We fled to the hills, our feet slipping on loose stones, our breaths shallow as we climbed higher, seeking refuge in the shadow of jagged rocks that had stood sentinel over our valley for millennia. From our hiding place, we watched our village burn. The smoke rose like a mournful prayer, curling toward a sky that offered no mercy, its gray tendrils carrying the scent of charred wood and lost dreams. The playground was gone, reduced to a scar of blackened earth, its laughter silenced, its magic extinguished. Baba held me close, his arms a fortress against the world’s collapse, but nothing could shield me from the ache of that lost marble—a piece of my soul left behind in the dust, a fragment of light buried in the ruins.
The years that followed were a mosaic of survival—a blur of new lands, new faces, new scars. We wandered through caves s where the air was thick with despair, where the faces of refugees mirrored our own grief. We crossed borders under cover of night, our footsteps muffled by fear, our hearts heavy with the weight of what we had left behind. I grew up in cities that felt like labyrinths, their concrete walls cold and unforgiving, their skies gray with the smoke of industry rather than war. But no matter where we went, the memory of that marble clung to me, a splinter in my heart that no amount of time could dislodge. I could still feel its cool weight in my palm, hear the soft clink of glass against earth, see the way it caught the sunlight and held it, as if it could keep the world whole.
I carried Baba’s stories with me, too, though he did not survive the journey. He had given his strength to us, to the children he led from the wreckage, and when his heart gave out under the weight of too many losses, I felt the world grow dimmer. His voice lived on in me, though, in the tales I told myself to keep the darkness at bay—tales of a village where the earth was warm, where marbles were stars, where love was stronger than war. I grew into a man, my hands hardened by labor, my face lined by the years, but the child within me never stopped searching for that marble, never stopped believing it held the key to a world I could not reclaim.
Sixty years later, I stood in the cold, sterile halls of a London archive, my hands—now etched with the lines of age, knuckles swollen from decades of toil—trembling as I turned pages that held the wreckage of our past. The archive was a mausoleum of memory, its shelves lined with ledgers and files, each one a tombstone for a life, a home, a village. The records were relentless: names of the fallen, my neighbors, my kin; counts of homes reduced to cinders; acres of groves turned to soot; livestock slaughtered or scattered; lives erased with the cold precision of ink on paper. Each line was a scar, a testament to a world torn apart, a wound that had never fully healed.
I searched for hours, my eyes straining under the weight of memory, my fingers tracing names and dates as if they could summon the faces I had lost. I searched for my father, though I knew he was gone—his name absent from every list, his fate swallowed by the war’s insatiable hunger. I searched for Baba, for the mothers who sang, for the friends whose laughter once filled the air. I searched for our playground, our oak groves, our mountain, hoping for a trace of the life we had loved. But the records were silent about the things that mattered most—no mention of the scent of jasmine, the clink of marbles, the warmth of the earth beneath our feet. Nowhere, in all those heartless, meticulous pages, was there a whisper of my marble—that small, luminous shard of my heart, abandoned in the ruins of a playground that still haunted my dreams.
I closed the final ledger, my hands heavy with the weight of absence, and stepped out into the London rain. The city was alive with noise—cars humming, voices chattering, the pulse of a world that had moved on—but I felt the silence of my village within me, a void that no archive could fill. I walked through streets lined with strangers, their faces blurred by the rain, and I saw my marble in every glint of light—on wet cobblestones, in shop windows, in the eyes of children who would never know the weight of war. It was everywhere and nowhere, a ghost that followed me across decades and continents.
And sometimes, in the quietest hours of the night, when the world is still and the stars burn cold above, I swear I hear it—the soft, ghostly clink of glass against earth, rolling through time, forever out of reach. It is the sound of my childhood, my village, my father’s promise, echoing in the chambers of my heart. It is the sound of a marble that held a universe, a marble that was my world, lost but never forgotten, a light that burns eternal in the darkness of memory.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H9NAuCFOpPc
My Heart is Yours
K.H
Beneath the silver of the morning sky
I see your face, and time drifts by
The wind that whispers through the quiet trees
Carries your name, brings me to my knees
The flowers bend where your footsteps fall
our old river hums, he knows as sister
Without your light, the world feels dim
With you, each day begins its hymn
I walk the fields where shadows play
And think of you at close of day
The sun may set, the night may call
But your soft voice outshines it all
The stars, like lanterns, pierce the night
Yet none can match your gentle light
The moon may wander in the sky
But it cannot hold your gaze, my sigh
I hear the birds sing through the rain
They sing of love, they sing of pain
Yet every note returns to you
A melody both fierce and true
Through storms that tear the land apart
Your warmth remains within my heart
Through endless roads and drifting sands
I feel your touch in unseen hands
And if the mountains crumble low
And rivers cease their endless flow
I’d find you in the silent air
And speak my heart, my soul laid bare
So take my days, my nights, my all
My whispered dreams, my every call
For life without you holds no light
My heart is yours, both day and night
The Pageant of Victors
K.H
History calls them Great
Docent of the Living Stone
He stood no taller than a tapestry’s rolled edge,
A little man with a voice, soft and rustling pledge,
Had the cadence of ancient stones and liturgical decree—
A Latin accent, worn and warm, like Tiber’s silted sea,
flavus Tiberis, yellowed on the tongue.
Don Quixote in a docent’s coat, his spectacles his shield,
To him each marble god and saint a living, breathing field.
Not just the “man” or “time,” he’d paint the very air they knew,
The fortress of lores bursts never,
Under the burden of memories.
The world emerged with the brushstroke, and chisel drew.
He stopped beneath the vault where cosmic fingers almost meet.
A pause—my daughter murmurs, breath asking for retreat.
“Il Cielo di Sistina,” whispered he from his seat.
“The scaffold’s groan was in his bones, the plaster fresh and wet,
The Pope’s impatience, a daily fret.
He saw not saints, but farmers’ backs, the prophets’ fiery doubt,
The genesis of anguish as the light was blotted out.
The blue is not just heaven’s hue—it’s Roman twilight, deep,
When a tired man has promises to keep.”
Then to the Laocoön, that whirl of stone and pain.
He reads in Virgil—Quidquid id est, timeo Danaos et dona ferentis.
“Behold the priest, the serpent’s coil, the visionary’s bane.
He was found ’neath the emperor’s own vine,
Not in a scholar’s book, but earth’s dark, twisting line.
Feel the digging—in a year! The mud, the shout,
The Renaissance holding its breath, to see such fury out.
Not myth alone—the warning tightens in the stone,
When seeing clearly costs more than thrones will own.”
He waved at Apollo Belvedere, so cold and grand.
“They call him perfect. But you see, he does not understand
The human foot that carved him, calloused, in a sunlit shop,
The wine-skin shared at noon, the mallet’s steady drop.
This grace was born from sweat and dust and ordinary bread,
From an artist dreaming of a god, but thinking of his shed.
The beauty’s in the making, not the marble’s icy face—
The god is in the chase.”
In the Stanza della Segnatura, where philosophers stand,
He said, “This Raphael, a gentle man, with a turbulent land.
Plato points up, Aristotle points out—the great debate!
But see the mortar stains on the builder’s slate?
The wars outside the window, the Pope who needs a wall,
The artist balancing ideals, while answering a call.
He painted peace while hearing drums. That tension in the design
Is the truest, brightest, most human line.”
At last, before the Transfiguration, stark and split in two,
The chaos down below, the glory breaking through.
“They say it shows two stories. No. It shows one single day.
The faith we dream on mountaintops, the doubt we kneel to pray.
See the boy’s possessed eyes? The mother’s ragged shawl?
That’s the world the artists lived in, hoping God would call.
The painting’s not just light and dark; it’s the cry they had to bear
To make the divine apparent in our desperate, human air.”
And then our tour was ended. The vast halls grew still.
The workshop’s din and thirst clung to us, against our will.
The human ache that sculpted god, the blessing and the cursed.
A little man, in grave and kind Cervantic way,
Fought windmills of oblivion, and saved the dying day.
The End
* Aenied 2: 45-50)
On Portrait of a Vatican Docent
This poem rooted in my visit to the Musei Vaticani, In fact it is my expression on the life of a docent in
the Vatican Museums, a man who is far more than a guide. He is a translator of souls, a
bridge across centuries. He is physically unassuming—"a little man"—with a voice like ancient
stones and the yellow Tiber River. But in his worn docent's coat and spectacles, he is a Don
Quixote, tilting at the windmills of forgetfulness and superficial viewing.
His magic lies not in reciting dates, but in resurrecting the living world that created the art.
For him, every masterpiece is a door, and he holds the key to the bustling, doubt-filled, sweat-
and-clay human reality behind it.
Here is his daily journey, and the story he tells:
In the Sistine Chapel: He doesn't see static saints. He feels Michelangelo's aching back on the scaffold, the damp plaster, the impatient Pope. He sees the Roman twilight in the blue of the ceiling and translates the sublime into the exhausted resolve of "a tired man [who] has promises to keep.
Before the Laocoön: The statue is not a myth. It is a rediscovered scream from the earth. He makes you feel the mud, the shout of discovery, the Renaissance collectively gasping as this frozen terror is hauled from the ground. The warning of the Trojan priest becomes immediate: "When seeing clearly costs more than thrones will own."
Facing the Apollo Belvedere: While others see cold, perfect divinity, he sees the calloused hands of the sculptor. He points to the wine-skin, the mallet's drop, the dust of the workshop. The god's beauty is born from human sweat and ordinary bread; "the god is in the chase."
In Raphael's Rooms: He reveals the tension. As Raphael paints the lofty "School of Athens," the docent shows us the mortar stains and hears the war drums outside. The perfect harmony of the fresco is made more profound by the "turbulent land" it was created in. The true genius is in that balance.
At the Transfiguration: He dismisses the simple two-story interpretation. For him, Raphael’s final masterpiece is the single, heartbreaking truth of the human condition: the split between divine hope and earthly desperation. The possessed boy and the pleading mother are as real as the radiant Christ above; faith and doubt are two halves of one agonizing cry.
My tour ended, but his did not. His lesson lingers. He has fought his Quixotic battle and won. He has replaced marble and pigment with flesh, doubt, and genius. He leaves you not with a catalogue of art, but with the "workshop's din and thirst," the "human ache that sculpted god."
His story is this: He is a keeper of the flame. In a place that can feel like a mausoleum of overpowering grandeur, he is the humble scholar who restores the human heartbeat to the heart of the divine. He doesn't just describe art; he performs a sacred act of resurrection, ensuring that the glory of the Vatican museum remains forever entwined with the grime, vision, and fragile brilliance of the people who built it.
