1. Do not ask me to shatter my brow—

    am I to walk behind you, beset by doubts, gasping,

  2. ، ؟

    and stretch my nerves across a lyre,

    a string torn apart by passion’s melodies?

  3. ، ،

    I closed—I closed—the ribs, and my palm flinched

    against my breast; and my heart is locked.

  4. ، !

    The myth of winged love—I scorned it,

    scattered my pages, and the lily died!

  5. ؟

    Do not ask me to rub my eye in dust—

    is light to melt within my eye and choke?

  6. ،

    O daughter of that past of mine I laid to rest,

    no radiant dream remains beneath your eyelids.

  7. ،

    You bleed illusion dry in the poison of night

    and lull the wound, even as it stares.

  8. ؟

    ،

    Who are you? Here you are: the wreckage of a poem,

    black and panting—and a weary letter.

Sol 5.6