In Damascus
the doves fly
behind the silk fence
two by two
In Damascus
I see all of my language
written with a woman's needle
on a grain of wheat
edited by the partridge
of the Mesopotamian rivers
In Damascus
dialogue goes on
between the violin and the oud,
and about the endings:
whenever a woman kills a passing lover
she attains the Lotus Tree of Heaven!
In Damascus
a gazelle sleeps next to a woman
in a bed of dew,
the woman takes off her dress
and covers Barada with it!
In Damascus
a bird picks
at what is left of wheat
in my palm
and leaves for me a single grain
to show me my tomorrow
tomorrow
In Damascus
the jasmine dallies with me:
Don't go far,
follow my tracks.
The garden becomes jealous:
Don't come near
the blood of night in my moon
In Damascus
I count my ribs
and return my heart to its trot,
perhaps the one who granted me entry
to her shadow
has killed me
and I didn't notice
In Damascus
I write in a woman's journal:
All that's in you
of narcissus
desires you
and no fence, around you, protects you
from your night's excess allure
In Damascus
the traveler sings to himself:
I return from Syria
neither alive
nor dead
but as clouds
that ease the butterfly's burden
from my fugitive soul