The East Is Near

I’m made to drink from the strumming of autumn
inebriated
and so I see
the sorrow of houses
the ashes of Gaza
the triangle of our love
I see it, they wronged it
a living nightmare
and so I pray
the prayer of death
. . .
I’m made to drink the blood of my country
with its assassinated bleeding
screaming
in a neighborhood of a nightmare
and I become imbued
borne on the back of a phoenix
cuffed between the sky
. . .
I’m made to drink the famine
yearning for a sip
prancing
awaiting,

an idea
a dream
a telepathy
boiled tears
until I sleep
. . .
I’m made to drink the wine of our thyme
spikes of a homeland
will that belonging be satisfied?
After the perfidy of optimism
will poetry’s cells resuscitate?
After the saturation of shrouds
I’m made to drink the wine of death,
mixed with a taste of peace
an enamored, crazy peace
called the peace of death
. . .
I’m made to drink the house’s burning thirst
I did not devour my remains in its corners
I did not devour the destruction of my childhood
the heart’s crumbs are guarding them
in the pneuma of memories
. . .
I’m made to drink the rise of fear

a light warble in the direction of blood
to chirp my morning in a night
the known east of my city did not come back
for hope around me is dwindling
the rise of life is far
the east is near for days
the east is near for days . . .

Translation from the Arabic