Heavenly earth flutters in the mind, word-borne.
The dead do not dream much, and if they do,
no one believes their dreams.
These words swarm in my body as bees,
as bees. Had I written blue ink on blue paper, the song
would turn green, and my life return to me.
In words, I found the way to a shorter name.
Poets do not rejoice much, and if they do,
no one says they are right.
I am still alive, because the words still flutter here.
In my mind, the song oscillates between presence
and absence, opens the door only to shut it.
This is actually a song about the life
of mist, which obeys nothing except
those other words, the ones I have forgotten.
—Translated by Mohammad Shaheen and Amro Naddy