Sometimes
The sky doesn’t draw its drapes
As the first long, desolate night descends
We are third-class patients
Or, the less vulnerable
We are the victims of wisdom
The moment the window opens
And the air pushes its way through
Without appropriate exhalation
We know now
What the years have done to us
The bed that has been vacant for years
Of all the dead bodies and martyrs
Must finally be left barren
So it may stand tall
And watch its soul infinitely fall
Over strange arms.
All I smell
Is the stench of an iron
Abandoned on run down clothes
Until they caught fire
And a wet circle
And white teeth
Undoubtedly unsmiling
And dreams that die
When there are no longer balconies to leave from
And I have been writing poems for a while
I don’t exactly know
If this is my pain, or theirs.

Translation by Sara Elkamel