I Sleep in My Inkwell and Wave to the Distant
Translated By Jennifer Jean & Amir Al-Azraki
To those who enter the fire with boats,
who touch heaven with kites,
who stuff roof holes with clouds,
who hide under beds
whenever the road stutters
in the throat of footfalls entering fog—
of footfalls that never return
from the checkpoint
which only sends back bodies;
to those who resort to the inkwell
when speech narrows,
who plant nails in their blood
whenever the wall slouches—
more and more nails
so the lover’s image does not fade
into the traffic of silence;
to those who collect their own ashes
whenever their pillow is dry,
whenever there’s absence,
who aren’t tired of waving
to loves in the distance
whenever maps are locked;
to those who venture into meadows
before the waters flow,
who keep the keys
whenever they know the doors
were stolen, who leave their crutch
on the threshold of the unknown
whenever life leaves them behind;
to those who know themselves
through their wounds
whenever the war sleeps
in their eyes
while reassuring the subjects of war;
to all those, I say: the forest begins
with a tree; let
your left hand—which keeps the throne—
shake your right hand. Maybe
dreams hatch between them.
Translated from the Arabic
Source: Poetry (May 2020)