The cellar inquiries about my candle
about the wobbling of my imagination
about my notebook
my madness… my scribbles
my aged wine
in dead cups
No light … no shadows … no blindness
no inspirer who can draw puppets so well
I forgot who she is
I forgot who he is
I even forgot who I am living within
I am dressed in a stranger among races
The memory of dryness wrestles with me
scratching my body with my nails
writing on nothingness my secrets
blood-red
I kiss my sorrows
I lick the wounds
I climb loss
towards the roof of my existence
I write on the soot:
Who has stolen the night?
Who has stolen the day?
Translated by Nizar Sartawi
مدونة بألوان المشاعر الانسانية 