The well had dried
the bucket came up empty
and we had travelled far
meeting neither beast
nor fowl on our way
but we heard time
whining. Its clock turned 
like a millstone as we waited
for a sign.

There we stopped,
our horses had died -
they were a burden.
The dog whimpered for a while,
then he was gone.
We raised a small barrier of sand
over a pile of bones.
 
 

THE DREAM OF RETURNING

I had wanted to forget
to go back on foot
the road at noon
taking me home
where the light blazes
the shade is thick
and the dog barks.

I wanted to forget 
and almost shouted aloud,
but memories keep unreeling
forcing me into silence
my eyes shut
dragging my heavy feet
perplexed and lost.
 
 

THE END OF THE IDEA

1
The tree spoke.
It showed me its name
from which I took
a single letter
then my idea 
was swept off
by the wind
with the leaves.
There
the abandoned day
lost its shape
The great idea had come 
to its end.

2
The hand spoke.
Ahead of me
the day spilled its  thoughts
and rested,
turning its back 
to the night
I was forgotten
far away from all memory
stripped of yearning,
the door of speech
shut in my face,
my hands in chains,
my mouth biting the dust.
 
 

Translated by Sargon Boulus and republished here from Banipal No 3