In a time that confronts me, "You do not belong to me,"
I retort back, "I'm not of you," and struggle to understand it . . .

I am now a hue, a silhouette
displaced among its tasks, a puzzle
camped inside a skull.

Space is a shrinking horizon, a window trudging away
and the day is threads
that tear inside my lungs and ruffle the sky.
A rock under my head.
Everything I said about my life and its death
repeats itself in silence.

Do I contradict myself? That's true.
For I am now a shoot today and I was a harvest yesterday.
And I am between water and fire
and I am embers and roses
and I am sun and shade
and I am not a god.

Do I contradict myself? That is certainly true...
Closed is my house door
and darkness is my mattress,
a pale moon carrying
a handful of light.
My words failed to send
my gratitude to him.

He closed the door, not to chain his joys
. . . but to release his grief.

Everything will arrive, already old.
Find another companion, not this madness. Groom yourself
to remain as a stranger.

The sun no longer rises: she sneaks past frightened
then disappears,
covering her feet with straw . . .

I expect death to come at night,
and to cushion a rose
in his embrace
I am tired of this dust that covers the brow of wonder.
I am tired of people's exhales.

Translation: 2013, Khaled Mattawa