The Memory of Dryness

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


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

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