Fawzeya Al-Sendi

Translated by Bahaa-eddin M. Mazid

Ask any war

of victory

and you will be answered

with mountains of blood,

piles of corpses.

Snow is the memory

of the dead.

Kafka –

a precious stone

perfected by the carving

of a chisel….

If I were a stone,

I would ignore

the burning

of every wave that hits me.

The affliction of a wound

is not its share of pain;

it is the body uncovered,

the soul not moving

any further.

It is the string

that stirs the hand

to draw sighs

from vocal chords.

No one can see

ahead in the desert,

mirrors of mirage swindle me,

without a single miracle

beyond the cactus heat,

which like me,

can give refuge

to cries of water….

Give me time

to spirit away like a letter

that enjoys more freedom

than I….

Give me some time,

chiefs of tribes,

to cover the tent

with my body,

and crown patience

with my soul’s

burden.

Insanity is a garden

that reason

moves away from.

The night has burned

every piece of paper,

ashamed of the pencil

that’s become

stronger.

I am so tired and worn.

Heal me, you,

where pebbles reach

the road that vanishes

beneath my steps;

hide me so that

I am not

a warship collapsing

under a fire of

pouring ink….

Writing is a tigress

passionately burning,

a gift to obey, a clever hand,

a careless arrogance

that ravishes

and sees no harm

in claws that charm…

It is the triumph of

a plague, a prophecy,

an outbreak,

a loser’s share.

It is the rhythm

of my name