Sol 6

  1. In my village,

    moons kiss the branches of the trees.

  2. :

    Their radiance asks me:

    Are you still a poet

  3. ؟

    who loves the stillness of night

    and bathes in the valley beneath a waterfall of moonlight?

  4. I answer that

    the embers inside me have calcified,

  5. and sparks no longer fly from my poetry

    since I saw al-Sham wither,

  6. .

    Iraq drink death,

    and sorrowful Yemen lament the weight of fate.

  7. ***

    ***

    He used to struggle,

  8. not for the sake of the poor,

    nor for their good looks,

  9. .

    but for the sake of office

    and the taste of a salary so sweet.

  10. ***

    ***

    He went to the market to buy a horse,

  11. ، ،

    but bought a donkey, contrary to his intention.

    His ear loves the sound of neighing, but

  12. his nature chooses to love braying.

Sol 6