1- The Wave

Khalida
a sorrow around which branches leaf.
Khalida
a voyage which submerges the day
in the waters of the eyes,
a wave which has taught me
that the light of stars,
that the face of clouds
and the moaning of dust
are all one flower.

2- Under the Water

We slept in a garment
woven out of the cherries of night.
The night was specks of dust,
and the bowels
the rejoicing of blood, the rhythm of castanets
and the rays of suns submerged under the water.
And pregnant was the night.

3- Being Lost

Once, I got lost in your hands,
my lip a fortress enamoured with siege,
yearning for a wild conquest.
And you advanced.
Your waist was a sultan,
your hands the spearhead of the army,
your eyes a hiding place and a friend.
We fused, lost ourselves together, entered the forest of flames-
I draw the first step,
and you open the road...

4- Tiredness

The old tiredness around the house
now has its urns and its balcony.
It slumbers in its huts, sinking into absence.
How we worried about it in its wanderings;
we ran circling round the house,
asking each sheaf of grass,
praying,
crying when we glimpsed it:
How, what, and where?
Every wind has been,
every bough has been,
but you have not...

5- Death.

After these moments, the little time will come,
and will come the repeated steps and roads.
After these moments, the houses will age,
and the bed will extinguish
the flames of its days
and die.
And the pillows, too, will die.

A MIRROR FOR THE CORPSE OF AUTUMN

Have you seen a woman
who carries the corpse of autumn,
mixing her face with the pavement
and weaving from the strands of rain
her dress,
while people
in the ashes of the pavement
are dead embers?

A MIRROR FOR ABU AL-'ALA'

I recall that I visited your eyes
in al-Ma'arra,
and listened to your footsteps.
I recall that the grave was walking,
emulating your footsteps.
And around your grave,
your voice was slumbering like a quiver
in the body of days or the body of words
on the bed of poetry.

Your parents were not there.
Nor was al-Ma'arra.

A MIRROR FOR THE CLOUDS

Wings;
but they are made of wax .
And the rain cascading
is no rain,
but ships for tears.

A MIRROR FOR THE 20th CENTURY

child's face.
A book
inscribed on the entrails of a crow.
A monster drawing close,
holding a flower.
A rock
breathing in the lungs of a madman.
This is,
this is the twentieth century.

A MIRROR FOR THE ADORING BODY

Every day
the adoring body melts in the air,
becomes a fragrance;
it revolves, summoning every fragrance
to come to its bed,
enshroud its dreams,
dissolve as incense
and as incense return.

Its first verses are a child's torment
lost in the whirlpool of bridges,
knowing neither how to stay
in the water, nor how to cross.

A MIRROR FOR THE WITNESS

When the spears came to rest in the dying gasp of Husain,
and adorned themselves with the body of Husain,
and the horses trampled every pore in the body of Husain,
and plundered and despoiled
were the garments of Husain,

I saw every stone leaning tenderly over Husain,
I saw every flower sleeping on the shoulder of Husain,
I saw every river
walking in the funeral of Husain.

THE MIRROR OF ORBITING

After the fire of orbiting,
after the nectar of the wound and the dream
in the bed of the fruit harvest,
the passion for transcendence shone forth.
I climbed my yearning and its fire,
then we travelled
away from an oozing island of scum
through the carpet of the translucent universe.

And today I am an astral savour.
I contemplate my image in a mirror and melt Time
into a mirror of arresting light
for my divining face,
for the day as sharp as the heart,
for the conquest,
for the magic of infinities and dimensions.

A MIRROR FOR ORPHEUS

Your sorrowful lyre, Orpheus,
cannot transform the leaven,
knows not how to fashion
for the beloved,
captive in the cage of the dead,
a yearning bed of love, a tress and two arms.
Whoever dies is dead, Orpheus,
and Time galloping in your eyes
stumbles;
and in your hands
the lyre breaks.

I glimpse you now: ahead
on the banks;