In my stormy night, by my heart I see, as one who sleeps,
That I am a tree in one country
With roots in another,
That I am a stone of corundum in its covert place,
That I am a pearl amongst hidden shells,
That I am a bashful wave that gathers clouds
Created by the eternal topography,
That I trigger lightning and melt like hailstones.
I am a stingray seeking the possibilities of birth.
I am a quake of steenbok, fugitive,
The grief of a fallen and withered heart
As one who sleeps,
I see that I am the script and the origin of words.
I am superstitious meaning flashed across
most splendid eternity.
I am the sweet rhythm tapped out on the face of a tambourine.
I see myself as a flower.
I see myself as a palm tree,
As butterflies aflame in passion
I am surrounded by men made of marble
Who find solace in carvings engraved
on stone,
People in lines,
A melody that inebriates the soul: ever eternal
Ladies made of ceramic,
Sinking in seas of musk, odorless.
On the shore there is the sword of a martyr,
Pigeons, a waste of bleeding.
As one who sleeps,
I see that I am a bulbul who sang and sang
Then hid itself away,
That I am sinking in prayers of your visage,
My sorrows vast deserts,
That I am your sleepy limbs on the morning
When they prayed and trembled,
That I have become a slave, angel and hostage
to physical seduction,
That I suffer an agony of torment.
All this is a response to a question made of foam,
That when my longing overflows
I am scattered into pieces over distance.
Distracted… I run and run,
Denying all my histories
In the crowd of the universe.
I am no one.
