What is left?
What is left from our words does not reach
so which of our poems will ever be complete.
My disclosures are strange, so who would
embrace them
If the cold of the nights increases they would
disappear .
Are we gathering now breathless dreams,
and all that is in our white hopes reduced.
Or should we settle down
while all our extended disappointments travel for ever
in all the lands that are disconnected.
These are my tears that drown me like the sea
and some of my sea is burning on my palms.
And the intoxicated wound of my song
is an old despair that is almost healed by my words.
It comes like a love that over-reaches in its enticement
And when it comes, it comes praying
It come like Laila in its wandering
It comes like a mirage in the sight .
All the contradictions are a mere fancy in our imagination
Mirages following one another in my soul .
Nothing falls like the tears under my prayers
it cries and the falsehood of space rises
We ask the flowers were the gates of longing whisper
and all the travelers gone.
In all the lands underneath my rhymes
the letter dies and lies and shame grow.
We feel shy due to poetry that tells lies
that comes and goes and cries where it reaches.
Hoping that the flowers will call a few loaves of bread
where the hearts without hope could find some rest.
