He bequeathed his soul…to horses' foreheads
His feet…to a dance that makes the earth want to
Be green
His voice…to the cockerels of morning
His little ensnaring toys… to the old men
His hands, with the cold dignity of wisdom, …to
The reckless playfulness of childhood
His hart…to a woman who stopped him in his
Tracks when she loved him
She said: don't be domestic, like pots and; pans
And departed
And so
When we walked in his funeral procession
The coffin was empty

Translated by Omnia Amin