The superstition has expended
To comprise all of us, all of us.
The fancy-dress party has been completed.
You, my sharp letter, and I have chosen
The role of the naked
Not because we only like to be naked
But because we have no clothes.
Even if we were given some used tatters.
Who would assure us that we could wear
What would cover our bodies
After this amazing nakedness?
The superstition has expended.
Our babies are in the cradle, who cares for them?
Allah does.
And our griefs are in the cradle, who cares for them?
The whip does.
And our superstitions are in the letter, who cares for them?
The uselessness does.
My stupid letter, It is vainness!
The superstition has expended
And bought an umbrella for its bored dreams
And gone out naked down the streets
Followed by all the fools of the world.
The superstition has expended.
(Who are you? Where do you come from?)
The inquirer asked.
Staring into his eyes, I was terribly amazed.
(Who are you? Where will you go?) The inquirer asked.
I grew puzzled and my eyes welled with tears.
(Who are you? Where will you die?)
I looked at my corpse: it is still hot.
So, I cried.
The superstition has expended.
In the capitals where the Iqal* and swimsuit are worn
We have searched, for our griefs, new exiles.
The friends escaped from us.
They left us to be eaten up in the desert.
The superstitions expended…expended.
Even I, who carried my letter as a cross,
In the middle of capitals,
Cried and sang
Sang and prayed
Prayed and spent the night in prayer
I looked around and saw nobody to help me
To dig my grave
Only the dead
Who received me together with my corpse
In the waterfall of noisy laughter.