Who let the Eve in?

EVE (sighs):  Millenniums have passed and certainly not to start the fun
Hail Lord, it’s so mind-numbing to be lonely in paradise …
Pure rivers of Eden, let’s play innocent games!
Give it mouth!
Speak of my dewy skin!
Speak but do not place it in ruins with lipful delusions,
speak to this outcast,
in the light as fits the occasion
proving thus my dewy skin
speak without melodiousness.
I am only one hereby.
Shall I be Astraea or Justitia,
should I keep the white lilies in my hand?
They are a lot in the garden.
Eden Rivers:
Oh, dame Blanche, Mother Of Innocence
your belly is bloated
with the new maternity
mother of the lambs.
(Eve is fanning herself with akakia leaf)
…and Acacia wove its branches into your divine hair…
the ivory gull is tucked on your shoulder and…
Oh stop, stop, STOP with such eyesore, flatterers
even I must be filthier than
I thought I was
I, of a pure heart?
(Eve bursts into laughter)
I’m just a rotten bird in the night wind,
my face is not serene in the early sunlight
get it, toads?
And what about the Innocent from the time immemorial,
that has only been narcotized with tranquility?
The whore of Aventine Hill
is far more useful than her divinely dust
sprinkled per treacherous tenderness.
My eyes have seen many transgressions
and my ears heard many homicidal world proverbs,
but your lascivious narrative
coming from your fancy mouths
reek more than six poisonous flowers of the green hell,
and if I am of a pure heart, and perhaps
disgusted with your game choice
let’s pretend better then.
Bear my chastity, the Wicked, you serve me best.
I govern this, the wicked world
by mythological nods for scoundrels
and the greatest rascal there is in me, always
I am making him feel nostalgic.
(Eve screaming and grabbing her gray hair tearing branches of acacia)
All gone!
They left me here to guard the trees and grown – up slaughtered babies!
I thought I had died several millennia earlier (deliriously)
Eden Rivers (Stirring up): Who let the Eve in?!
Eve: Hush…
You wonder why I came back.
To atone for maternal sins,
to douse the thirsty ground,
who will look after poor Abel instead of me?
Master maybe? (Shrugging) He has not been in my sight for eons.
(Idiotic sobbing in the distance)
you all know how shiftless and sensitive he is
after all he went mad after that…occasion.
I am the mother of the Earth
If I’m away,
cruel rivers of Eden will not supply my thirsty land
therefore, the rivers of Eden, next time tell me
how pretty my face is when mastered with fear.
(Rivers withdrew into darkness and fell silent. Eve fell asleep, muttering)
I, the Fear… Great Shame… My poor lamb, my angel
your sacred and pure virginity is gone.
(Evil smile)

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

edited by: Obinna Eruchie



Returned to sea

The symbol of “the sea” is similar to that seen in the beasts rising out of the sea and out of the earth (Revelation 13:1, 11). It designates origination, representing the realm of the earth

Also, the fish is a symbol of baptism and as such, an appropriate symbol for Christians to adopt. A fish symbolizes fertility, feelings, creativity, rebirth, good luck, transformation, health, abundance, serenity, intelligence, happiness, strength, and endurance.

Authors note


Returned to sea, through realms
beyond the sea,
whatever city you may be in,
the shalop reach the side
as died upon the tide

of awakening fire
why fly with one wing
Of flowers budded newly
Among the pirates, among the shepherds
A ram goes bleating.

How to walk on one leg?
Conjure thee to linger in the multitude arose
how much of the world can be seen
with half an eye
about their brows!

Strange ministrant of abrupt thunder
behind which hill does the man cease to be
Dread opener of the feathery whizzing
far and wide
on which the field a beast remains
A yielding up, through the water straight,

Let them die everyone who isn’t us,
the empty souls vibrated with the howling
of thousands of kinds of monstrosities

They wrapped their miserable greens in dazzling colours
to cool bosom mocking under your shore – out of memory
unconscious did they embalmed your heavier, sweet grief above

Why live with one hand
how to walk on one leg
They mock you
But we will cry with you
don’t worry about those devilish smirks

To tunes forgotten,
Once more been tortured with
the towering horses
in due time aloud we cry beckon’d you to silence
a kiss on the cheek,

To melting one eye fish
to earth the dower of still waters
and white did lave that all those gentle lispers
to tinge the salt tear syren shores
don’t worry about those damn ridicule

No matter what city you were in,
returned to sea, through realms beyond the sea
return to the sea
what kind of land it is for which one must die for

Don’t worry about the red nights in the east
don’t worry about those devilish kingdoms
don’t worry about anything


all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

Brandy bilious burp miasma of inebriation

Orphaned on cold streets

just for tonight,

just for tonight,

my hands tangle my Medusa’s hair

A column of mourners black veils,

blacker shrouds blackest scars

point fingers jab my face

with dirty nails spit at my eye

kick my uterus Drunk under the table by

Brandy bilious burp miasma of inebriation

Disowned by God thrown to ground and called whore

Instead of my biography, to all..

I am not thoughtful
Atalanta who’s hopping
near the court of Harita and Himeros
inspired by the announced visit of Papa Legbo
through the Caribbean bays and with the astonishing rhythm
of all possible percussions with the fish pepper from Florida,
bathed naked body in the waters of Permes.
On the contrary, I pay for a joint septic pit near Belgrade Krnjača,
I’m just someone who is an inadvertent speaker, looking for an editor, a poet,
with the echo of the whisper,
with the one neuron that remained in my head after postwar stress… and it serves me for knocking on my keyboard’ door for heaven is not
a place on Earth.. well, logically speaking, Belinda… Xiao moto (Sorry about that in guajarati..)
.. In vain, in vain…

Off the record – I am scared of my poetic responses

I’m an engaged woman
one that’s still necking with sky
I skip the fence, these are the bunches of bushes
these are the lengths of the backbone
(Does the soul have urges and gut?)
I’m scared of my poetic responses

I am hungry by being an everlasting land
I seduce the heavens so that I am an ungodly land
I’m a never-ending land in the collapse
I am scared of my poetic responses

I am the obsolete woman
I’m alone communicated thought obsolete for men
a thunderously conclusive readjustment of
their theoretically unproven
life sentences
of hopelessness self dependency’s.
I’m scared of my poetic responses

For close 40 years, I (t) funnelled
all of my Shawshank Redemptive experiences
within my poetic mode of hopefully
escaping under every watching eye’s noses
I am scared..
I’m transgressed, woman!

I wrote all the years to stay alive
and now after I decided it was time
for my own retrial
Unheard of mirrors.
the souls’ pricelessness by looking into
the windows once self-indulgent magnitudally
lost moment in time

while receiving the rescues within distances
ever-changing madness itself
fills the sky with visions and gold
with virgin gardens and springs
fills it with our little unimportant amours.

.. am not…

Now, when our eyes look through the lens of
the Hubble telescope, it’s pretty clear.
we’re still gravitating towards the ground.

.. scared…

And off the record
One fish was caught today
A Sunfish

Author’s note:
A Sunfish
Ironically symbolic of something in other’s words throughout history has never been able to catch its essence of beauty’s ability to lose the meaning of if looked at too intensely for its true meaning yet give sight to its secrets hidden at a glance

© Leila Samarrai Mehdi

Cats, theatre play, scene 5

Cats, theatre play, scene 5, Leila Samarrai, translated into English, Mazikeen Leila Smith

Read it fully, deeply, and completely on the link below.



(The Holy Paramore and Saint Peter are sitting together, cheek to cheek, staring at each other lovingly, outside the gates of Heaven.)


SAINT PETER: Sweetie, I would tear down the sky for you if you ask me!

THE HOLY PARAMORE: That’s not possible, my angel. We are already in the heavens.

SAINT PETER (he is kissing her forehead) You are choosing words wisely, my ethereal love.

THE HOLY PARAMORE: Well, then, my honey, my sweetie pie, my darl… always honourable, acquitted from all sins and free of defilement (sigh) I’d give you all my bury bones.

SAINT PETER: And I’d give you all my hagiographys! But don’t my lamb chop, don’t bother… my heart leaps to see you again, almost stopped with happiness! My tongue got tangled, like tree branches, that’ s all so wonderfully romantic! – weaving a knotted web. Keep your relics for yourself. You’ll need them when you least expect it. Say, as far as your parents, were they enjoying considerable wealth? When they were alive?

THE HOLY PARAMORE: Maybe they would’ve been, but they died out millions of years ago, beloved.

SAINT PETER: (shaking his head) Such a write off. I don’t need anything besides you, thou that art highly favoured. Along with other virtues which are not worthy of you or of that expensive dress you are wearing.

THE HOLY PARAMORE: It warms my heart knowing you are having second thoughts when it comes to receiving gifts, my inamorato, for it suggests the sentiments which are disgusting to both of us. Bad, black acts governing both heaven and hell. And all violations and transgressions, can’t even approach two greatest sins, my flame.

SAINT PETER: And what since might those be, my true love?

THE HOLY PARAMORE: These two: a materialism and an adultery.

SAINT PETER: Blessed be.

THE HOLY PARAMORE: You’ve been spending too much time with Satan’s ferryman, my one and only. He is a bad influence on you, my Pippin. Should I be concerned?

SAINT PETER: But, my crackajack, my peach, my sugar, you always told me: Peter, you’re gentle like Lorca’s rosebud. But only sweet imp, a devilish masculine type is fit to be my real husband. I am having trouble enjoying the company of that mad, bad sinner, my holy par – amore, my significant other. But, that’ s the only way that I can learn high/level pranks and stuff. I’ m doing all of this for you, paramour. Whatever I do… maintaining my vow of chastity, I ask him, now and then, to teach me how to dodge, to cheat, to turn tricks, to…

THE HOLY PARAMORE: Trick, what trick? Any unusual sin? Sure! This must be.. ah! Tell me! (her eyes shine)

SAINT PETER: Blessed the cheek…! Recently… (scratches behind his ear) He, Emanuel, our hellish ferryman, disguised as John The Baptist, he swung a censer as he danced a Limbo dance, calling for souls in Limbo, making them swim in groups.. in Styx, yelling: Bathe and prepare to meet the Chief, citing verses 42-43… a moment Paradise filled up with sinners, choking angels with devilish smoke, while he was still singing: “The bath is full” while I.. oh my dearie, my knockout, my holy par amour.. I’ve had my hands pretty busy putting them all back in and to straighten out Emanuel’s mess. Suddenly, a stubborn Limbecile, since he was obliged to come home to the antechamber of hell, took his own life. He liked Paradise so much that he actually thought he was innocent. Of course, this was just a hell – loop…

THE HOLY PARAMORE: (squeezing her ethereal little legs just a little harder, her cheeks reddened)
O, sacrilège!
O, blasphème!
Isn’ t that what happened? Terrible thing.

SAINT PETER: There’ s more! Emanuel ordered Pizza capricciosa for the Gluttonous of the Third Circle of Hell… a special-order kind of thing: one for Cerberus – The chilli peppers give it a real kick.

Quite the scandal. Say no more! Not a second thought! Strike it from your mind, my darl, such a leechcraft, no more! Keep your high-quality pectoral cross washed clean of all the black marks, for he shall forever glow as a sign of perpetual light!
As for your Eden Key, Peter, bring it to my ethereal bed, Romeo!

SAINT PETER: (Peter, his lovely eyes intent on his Key, breathlessly..)
The apple of my eye! I got a report on the Sanitation department of Eden… It is written: The key won’t get rusty, Peter if you keep him someplace dry.

THE HOLY PARAMORE: Not before he serves his purpose. Oh, Peter! Hug me, hug me, hold me, Peter! Almighty, wrap him up in dark bedsheets. Let there be dark! Let him go forth, out of the dark, come out, a beautiful gloomy face of my true love! A, he’s asleep!… (she’s up, stepped into the Garden, butt- nagged for gods sakes)

THE HOLY PARAMORE: Oh, you, a madcap little devil of mine! Cheater! Hustler! Handsome sleaze – bag! O, I loved the way how you banged me in the clouds and there I lay pretended I were dead!

EMANUEL: (peeking over Tree of the knowledge of good and evil)
Does he not suspect something?

THE HOLY PARAMORE: He is no more boring than book reports. Let’s get together at midnight, honeypie, someone might see us.

EMANUEL: You wanna go for a ride in our gondola, my bimbo!
THE HOLY PARAMORE:… Surfing dark waters, us being together.. my beefcake!

EMANUEL: There’ s a shortcut near purgatory river, bitch!

THE HOLY PARAMORE: I’m getting juiced up over the nude beaches, stud!

EMANUEL: Come to my arms, you, she-devil!
(They are kissing)

The Perfect Love

I’d give you the perfect love
and the wretch, without which there would be no perfect love
I’d give you a night that has yet to be born
and morning with vile intentions that has not happened yet

I’d give you lavishly morning in the wasteland
I would given you all the sweet languages
and all the shapes that were slowly matured in me

I’d give you them, wolves and jackals
and Beethoven’s Ode to Joy
and Belgrade on fire from which I
managed to escape,
roasted, skinned and cooked
I would give you Heaven and Hell

I’d give you the fire
and the quiet joy
and the child’s language

All that is both happy and sad
and wounds that emerge from the mud
and my childhood
and my father whose hands killed me twice
and his words were rubbed into the places that hurt

I’d give you my luxuriously morning in the desolation
and feeble tail surfaces in the text
and truncated chairs in my poems

I’d give you everything!