TOC
Your love is a shade
My love is a sun:
The promise of coming together,
Or the promise of splitting?
Coming to this land
Is an ode
Not a litany.
Look back: the past
Is but a cosmic hole
From which only spectres of steam
Come out.
An expanse of copper
Cruising an expanse of rust ---
I never expected from the steps of nature
Such an error.
A rose in the orchard of his days
Liberates itself from its chains,
Its own fragrance being its chains.
What is it that its withering bud is telling him now?
And why is the question?
And who are you, oh inquisitor?
My body is a forest of symbols
And my steps are as delineated by my apprehensions,
An ascending stair,
And variegations of revelation.
It is the throne polishing its own mirror -
An image of the sky,
And burnishing its own chair
With fractions of heads
And streaks of blood.
That palm tree attentively listens
When I relate to it
The memory of my parents,
And understands what I say.
The huskiness of a voice, -
In it submerge the rhythm of meaning and submerge
The neck of a woman, -
Lay your head on its declivity,
And dream against death.
The oceans have taught him the rhythm of the waves-
The deserts have taught him the drawings and shapes of
Sands,
Neither have they sensed the mysteries of the oceans and
deserts nor his mysteries.
They have not noticed the difference in his pulse -
and they said:
His words,
Like his days,
Are repetitious, -
A rose whose petals
Wallowed in fragrance laughed.
That is a woman -
Amidst her footsteps walks a Spectre.
At times, it floats on her eyes
As a notion, or as an interpretation.
At other times, it dozes
In an esoteric site.
Poetry wanders through the body, It gets exhausted
And takes a rest in the throat,
Writers get speech while poets get torment
And get its intoxicating bliss.
Weeping willows:
A notebook of grief
To which the wind comes -
it does not read it.
A weeping wind
Rolls in it, and turns its leaves.
Along my guts the wheels of time
move forward and backward
Escorted with
Mirrors, images,
A multitude of languages,
Blood, and wars.
Furtively my limbs fight my limbs.
At times the wind comes, agitating and quivering -
my leaves remain still,
At other times, the wind does not come, yet
My leaves keep falling.
Go and tell the wind: my blowing is unwound off my leaves
and my fetter is loosened, -
My house is a mystery:
The rain my door and the cloud my colonnade.
Thy best luck
Is that thou art the resonant lust and the declared sedition,
That thou art the wandering vagabond through
Thy best luck is that thou art the blast
Thine is the initiation: thou devastatest or departest.
Naked
It attains the dawn of its own prospects.
And the attire that cloaked its body
Was but a night that destroyed sparks
In the waters of images.
Its mystery melts
In its own beams.
The world is a vat,
And the days are glasses.
He is now our guest,
Behold he is resting like a child
In the arms of a rose.
A rainstorm, A vague shower,
And our steps are meadows.
And murder is eloquent.
The suspirations of the poor:
The most lustrous raindrops, the purest water.
But it fructifies only death.
In which nobody dwells.
No neigbour. No visitor.
The face of reality in dreams that have long been defunct.
A mournful field,
The field started reading its own poems to the birds.
When wilt thou give me the ink in which is written
My night?
has not answered my queries;
Their lanterns have.
I shall call
A dice throw.
The most splendid of the stars shining on
Is a star named melancholy.
Ask the light.
No, it will not say where it is going
Or how it has come.
He assumes the airs of the desires flowing forth
From the obscurities of the body,
He assumes the spirit of poetry - he reads what the winds
cannot see
And what foam does not utter.
A homeland not begotten by
Or not brought up in the arms of a poem
Is a congested lung.
Light goes outside itself
To encounter its spectra.
A plot of land - herds of clouds
With thunder as their shepherd.
Open my chest -
In it you shall see
A swan and sweet green water
Wherein red roses swim.
Here in his wound is the sun,
She is in his bedstead,
Her eyelashes are married to his lamps.
Melancholy hath poetry
That knows the thing-in- its-origin,
Knows the thing in its manifestation and destination.
Melancholy is knowledge.
In a mirror of his own tears,
He spies the suffering of the poor,
In a mirror of the lexicon of his fancy,
He spies the vanity of poets.
Shall I try to attribute two lips to that rod,
A wing to this pebble, and command
The night of life to become brother to
Subversion of the alphabet -
Coming in, going out,
Rebelling, getting tyrannical, and becoming