There are no dreams at the arena of Herculeses
Except the dreams to fly to the country of snow and mini wear
Except the dreams of antiquities smugglers and tears circulators
Except the dreams of Herculeses who built storeys of their bodies
In the middle of our great nudity
We, the nameless and addressless, became amazed
Without memory or faith
There are no birds at the arena of Herculeses
No love birds nor sparrows
No nightingales nor doves
Here, there are only some kinds of owls
And some parrots pretending to be bright
Here, there is loose music
Like a leash of a lost dog

I used to ask the faces and names:
Is there any way to some paradise beatenless
Is there any way to some paradise without smoke or fire,
Without demons or devils?
I used to ask and ask
But nobody has a question
And there is no question given by anyone
None has any question
The Dinars alone can talk
I wondered: the Great Hercules
The mountain and the sellers of live flesh remained silent
So did the women sellers of cigarettes
And the sellers of falafil* and the poets of tears café
An the women curators as well as the workless visitors of the library
The Dinars alone can talk
Talk, talk and talk
I wondered: everything became silent
Even the letters that I collect together with their dots
Did leave the arena of Herculeses
In great confusion.

Falafil: A kind of food.