All that night has written about us, and still writes
cracks like dawn on our pillow, between your breasts
and under your breasts
and among the roses of sheets that wrestle with us.

How many times have we read—and seen
our terrors written?
I used to name you . . .
"but I still do not know who you are?"
So you said.
Night blots what dawn writes about us—
what shall I name you? Who are you, who were you the night of my love?

Translation: 2013, Khaled Mattawa