My fingers linger in the air of your room
the metaphor in the improvised music of cold-lands mountains
A trickster in Athens you are
driving some small moist air
over the dryness of winter in the north
thus, we enter as two birds, the smaller fledgling murdered by stretches of land and calamities
we are who differ over the tears of paper under the clouds of wishes and beyond memories
like all others…
and sleep like a doe that canters every time it’s lost
in a forest where all trees run;
no sign of the silkworm..
in the silt..
in the chamber..
on that island..
In timeworn alleys, a call rises like a blossoming song
a sound on the edge of awaiting ravages homes through their high windows
hail drops on the wings of bats
on a road no longer suited
for carriages drawn by Cyprian mules
We dance together to the breath of firewood where unseen fates sprout like black boulders of gentle reprovements
and draw goat milk from echoes of afar
we believe the smell of wind at sunrise.
Athens is a beautiful republic no more
for you have went with me to Alexandria
her beach welcomed you
and drowned me in the Mediterranean
the Egyptians crowned you queen
Gilgamesh saved my life
he departed from Iraq through Syria
and raised sailboats in Tyre
and lit fire on the face of the water
the Egyptians welcomed him like any god descending from his throne to protect creation
and the love which grew in Athens
Translated by: Taib Alhosny