Morning Twilight/ Evening Twilight

Written by Ahmed Naoual

In the army barracks the bugle crows, loud and lusty. A crestfallen private grunts sleepily and spits on the government floor. Soon the barrack squares will be resounding with shouts of "get a move on, lazy bums! You bring shame on your parents and dishonour your country!"

The streetlamps seem to shudder in fear, as the streets echo with the imperious orders barked at the brave men in the barracks. But, in point of fact, the streetlights were inured to the high-sounding halleluiahs of the brass and the futile groans of the cannon fodder and were only disturbed, in their twilight sleep, by the hairy lashes of the morning wind.

Meanwhile, in the houses across the street, teenagers moan and writhe on their sweat-soaked pillows, tormented by torrid visitations from the abyss of their unfulfilled desires.

The bloodshot eyed lamp, now throbbing and twisting, looks like a red-eyed monster, through the hazy screen of daylight.

The human soul, floundering under the weighing burden of a sullen heavy corpse, strives to rekindle the smothered flame of life, emboldened by the struggles of the lamps against the daylight.

Teardrops, trickling on the melancholy face of the day, stirred by memories of short-lived happiness or untold stories of pain, will soon be wiped dry by the morning breeze. Now men find writing a weary task and women are no more moved by the trite overtures of love.

The smoke begins to rise up in chimneys and harlots go to sleep, eyelids ashen and mouths gaping, corpselike and stupid, unmoved by the great upheavals of mankind; while beggars, trailing scrawny and cold breasts, try to relight their dying embers with their feeble breath, saving a gasp for the revival of the frozen fingers.

The pain of labour grows sharper as the twinge of need and shame cuts through the haggard flesh of the wailing women, whilst the cockcrow tears the mist of the sobbing air.

The buildings float on a sea of murky fog. Dying old men in hospitals utter their last obscenities before they croak, and depraved young men go back home, dragging their feet under the burden of their night-time revelries.

Dawn, shivering in her green and pink dress, saunters leisurely along the forlorn Seine, and Paris rubs his sleepy eyes and takes up his tools, a gloomy old man doomed to backbreaking toil.

Evening Twilight

Here comes the charming evening, furtive but craving all kinds of encounters, slinking like a wolf, a partner in imminent crimes. Soon the world will be draped in a mantle of darkness and restless men will sneak out and become beasts of prey.

O delightful evening, loved by the arms that can truthfully claim to have worked really hard, bringing joy to the hearts of men devoured by ferocious grief, peace to the minds of weary scholars, and restful sleep to the bodies of toil-bent drudges.

Yet demons with evil design have roused from their heavy slumber and are now riding the air, knocking in their flight every shutter and shed, intent on wrecking havoc on the society of men.

The gas-jets, flickering in the wind, spotlight the business of illicit pleasure. An ant-hive now, harlotry opens all doors and weaves a secret passageway, ready for a surprise attack. It burrows through the mire like a worm that steals what man eats.

Now a cacophony of sounds livens up the spirit of the nightlife: the hissing of the cooking pans on fire, the yapping clamour of the theatregoers, and the blaring echo of the opera houses. Cheap joints, attracting gamblers of sorts, are jam-packed with whores and crooks. Soon their partners in crime, showing no sign of truce or mercy, will go about their nightly business too, softly breaking down doors and forcing safes, to live for a couple of days and buy frills for their naked lovers.

Seek in thyself, O ye soul, a safe haven in these tormented times, away from this din and roar.

Now the sick need to endure sharper pains, feeling at their throats the grim hands of the dark Night. Soon they will join the communal abode under the earth, and their journey will have come to an end. Now their sighs rise up in hospital wards, a fetid miasma in a putrefied world. Many will never go back home for a family dinner by the fireside.

But then how many of these miserable creatures have ever tasted the comforts of a home or even lived a life!