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.