The Coffee Cup Reader
She sat there, fear evident in her eyes,
Gazing at my overturned coffee cup.
She said:
My son, do not be sad,
For love is your destined path.
My son,
He who dies a martyr,
Dies in the name of love’s true essence.
Your coffee cup depicts a terrifying world,
Your life a series of travels and trials.
You will love immensely and repeatedly,
And experience sorrow just as much.
You will adore every woman on earth,
And return like a defeated king.
In your life, my son, there is a woman,
Her eyes, a marvel created by the divine.
Her lips shaped like a cluster of grapes,
Her laughter, nothing less than a symphony of flowers.
Yet your skies are filled with storms,
And your path is blocked, entirely blocked.
For the beloved of your heart, my son,
Rests within a guarded palace,
The palace is vast, my son,
With dogs and soldiers to protect it.
And the princess of your heart sleeps,
Those who enter her chambers are lost.
Whoever seeks her hand,
Whoever approaches her garden’s walls, is lost.
Whoever attempts to untangle her hair,
My son, is lost, utterly lost.
I have gazed and interpreted countless times,
But I have never seen
A coffee cup that resembles yours.
I have never known, my son,
A sorrow that matches yours.
Your fate is to always walk,
In love, on the edge of a dagger,
To remain solitary like a shell,
And to feel sorrow as deeply as the willow.
Your destiny is to continue forever,
In the sea of love without sails,
To love a million times more,
And return like a dethroned ruler.
A Reflection on My Beloved’s Face
When I gaze into your eyes,
I see lost cities,
I see a crimson time,
I see the reasons for death and pride,
I see a language yet to be recorded,
And deities stepping down
Before the magnificent surprise.
You unfold before me,
As rows of unnamed beings,
My only home is these eyes,
Unfamiliar with earth as a body.
I vigil through you, on a dagger,
Staring into my childhood’s brow.
Death opens up the sweet night ahead,
And you are as beautiful
As a remorseful little bird.
When I stare into you,
I see Karbala,
Utopia,
And childhood,
I read the list of prophets,
The journey of righteousness and vice.
I see the earth playing
Above the sands of the sky,
And a reason for the evening’s abduction
From the sea,
And the stingy balconies.
Love is Like a Small Café
Like a little café on a street of strangers,
That is love; it opens its doors to everyone.
Like a café that swells and shrinks according to the climate,
When the rain pours, its patrons increase,
And when the weather is mild, they dwindle and grow weary.
I sit here, O foreigner, in the corner,
What is the color of your eyes? What is your name? How
Shall I call you when you pass by me while I sit,
Waiting for you?
Love is a little café; I order my glass
Of wine, sipping in celebration of you and me.
I carry two hats and an umbrella as it falls,
Pouring more than any other day, yet you do not enter.
I tell myself, perhaps the one I awaited
Is waiting for me or for another man,
Waiting for us without knowing him or me,
And she used to say: Here I am waiting for you,
What is the color of your eyes? What wine do you love?
And what is your name? How shall I call you when
You pass before me?
The Poem That Remains Love
Do you see how I answered the suitcases when they asked:
Why are you leaving?
Your restless papers dissolve with longing,
Had you searched within them for a moment,
You would have found my heart lost in the rhythm of years.
And took my days and the essence of life; how can you travel?
The empty seat reproaches us for this ingratitude,
The sound of its weeping still echoes in my heart,
When the poor thing stumbles, asking if we shall return!
In your bewildered drawer slept my worried verses,
They sighed alone like a wandering dream,
Why did you abandon my verses?
You taught me that through love we build everything eternal,
You taught me that your love was written like my birth hour,
Thus, your love became a life that turned into a daily and tomorrow’s dream.
I worshiped you in the sanctuary of my verses,
And now you come to shatter my temples.
And the perfume bottle that your hands broke,
How it gazed longingly whenever it caught sight of you.
How many times it embraced your wavering breaths, intoxicated by your fragrance,
How many times it was torn by a tear that rested upon your eyes.
And today, the dust claims its blood,
And the fragrance that was your every desire dies.
And the little chamber, why did you deny our footsteps?
It drank from love’s glasses and quenched our youth,
Now, aspirations burn in its fields.
The little chamber torments me with its weeping,
At night, it asks what you did to us one day,
To reach this ending?