Poem: Say I Love You
Say I love you to enhance my charm,
For without your love, I cannot be beautiful.
Say I love you so my fingers transform
Into gold, and my forehead becomes a lamp.
Now, express it without hesitation,
For some love cannot be delayed.
I will change the calendar if you desire,
Erasing seasons or adding new ones,
And an old era will conclude by my hand,
As I establish a capital for women instead.
I am yours, should you become my beloved,
I will conquer suns with vessels and steeds.
Do not feel shy; this is your chance
To place me among the messengers of lovers.
Poem: My Beloved and the Rain
I fear the world may rain while you are absent,
Since you left, I have developed an aversion to rain.
Winter cloaked me with its coat,
And I did not think of the cold or any annoyance.
The wind howled outside my window,
Whispering softly to my hair,
Now I sit as the rain lashes me,
On my arms, my face, and my back.
Who will defend me, oh traveler,
Like a dove caught between sight and vision?
How can I erase you from the pages of my memory,
When you reside in my heart, like an engraving on stone?
Poem: The Coffee Reader
She sat, fear in her eyes,
Gazing at my overturned coffee cup.
She said, “My son, do not be sad,
For love is written for you.
My son, many will die,
As those who die for the beloved do.”
Your coffee cup is a terrifying world,
And your life consists of journeys and wars.
You will love many, my son,
And you will die many times, my son.
You will adore all the women of the earth,
And return like a vanquished king.
In your life, there is a woman,
Her eyes are a marvel, by the divine.
Her mouth shaped like a cluster of grapes,
Her laughter a melody and flowers.
Yet your sky is rainy,
And your path is blocked, blocked.
Your heart’s beloved, my son,
Sleeps in a bewitched palace,
And the palace is vast, my son,
With guard dogs and soldiers.
And your heart’s princess sleeps;
Whoever enters her chamber is lost.
Whoever seeks her hand,
Whoever approaches the walls of her garden, is lost.
Whoever tries to undo her braids,
My son, is lost, lost.
I have seen and foretold much,
But I have never read a cup like yours.
I never knew, my son,
Sorrows that resemble yours.
Your fate is to walk perpetually
In love, on the edge of a dagger,
And to remain alone like shells,
And to stay sad like the willow.
Your fate is to wander forever,
In the sea of love without sails,
And to love millions of times,
And return like a deposed king.
Poem: The Luggage of Tears
When winter arrives,
And its winds stir my curtains,
I feel, oh my friend,
The need to cry
On your arms, on my notebooks.
When winter comes
And stubbornness fades away,
All the birds find no place to rest,
The bleeding begins in my heart and fingers,
As if the rain in the sky
Is pouring inside me, oh friend.
I am then washed over
With childlike longing to cry,
On the silk of your long hair like ears of wheat,
Like a ship worn out by exhaustion,
Like a migratory bird searching for a lighted window,
Seeking a roof for itself in the darkness of braids.
When winter comes
And steals the beauty from the fields,
And hides the stars in its gloomy cloak,
Sadness approaches from the evening’s cave,
Like a pale, strange child,
Soaked with rain on his cheeks and cloak.
I open my door to this cherished visitor,
I offer him my bed and blanket,
I give him all that he desires.
Where did this sadness come from, my friend?
How has it arrived?
It carries with it
Magnificent lilies of sorrow,
And brings me
Luggage filled with tears and sobs.
Poem: Letters from a Resentful Lady
Do not enter!
You blocked my way with your elbows,
Claiming that friends came to you.
Are they friends that have come to you,
Or is a lady occupying your arms after me?
I cried out, heatedly: Stop!
The wind gnawed at my coat,
And humiliation enveloped my stance.
Do not apologize, you scoundrel;
Do not express regret.
I am not sorry for you,
But for my faithful heart,
My heart that you never knew.
What if you, oh wretched one,
Had informed me that my time was over with you?
For all that you whispered to me
When you used to love me,
That I was the butterfly’s home,
And that tomorrow was the scattering of irises,
I denied it just as you denied me.
Do not apologize; sin will gather your eyebrows,
And the red lines cry out on your cheeks,
While your tie of dazed fabric betrays
What you have in your heart.
Oh, you who I stood by,
And you humiliated me and shook me
Like a fly from your ear,
And you invited a lady to you,
While I had been the light in your eyes.
I see her there by the hearth,
She took my place there,
In that corner with the same seat,
And I see you offering her a hand,
Like one you have already known.
She will repeat the stories you told me,
And she will speak of the tales you shared,
And she will lift the cup that poisoned me.
Then, when she returns to you,
To make her happy appointment,
Tell her that friends have come to you,
And you lost her charm as you lost me.
Poem: Does He Think?
Does he think that I am a toy in his hands?
I have no thoughts of returning to him.
Today he came back as if nothing had happened,
With the innocence of a child in his eyes,
To tell me: I am his companion on this path
And that I am the only love he has.
He brought flowers for me—how do I respond?
And my youth is drawn on their petals.
I began to remember, while fire raged in my blood,
How I sought refuge in his arms,
Hiding my head as if I were
A child returned to its parents.
Even the dresses I neglected
Rejoiced for him, danced at his feet.
I forgave him, inquired about his well-being,
And cried for hours on his shoulders.
Unknowingly, I left my hand
To rest like a bird in his grasp
And forgot all my bitterness in a moment.
Who said I held a grudge against him?
How many times did I say I would not return?
Yet I returned—how sweet is the return to him!
Poem: Small Affairs
You pass by them without a glance,
Yet they account for my entire life.
Incidents that may not pique your interest,
From which I build mansions
And live on them for months,
Weaving from them countless tales,
A thousand skies and islands.
These small matters of yours,
For when you smoke, I kneel before you
Like your cherished cat,
And my whole being feels safe.
I pursue the prideful, admiring threads of smoke,
Dispersing them into the corners of the place,
Creating circles, circles,
And at the end of the night, you leave,
Like a good-natured star,
Leaving me, my dearest friend,
With the scent of tobacco and memories.
And I remain, in the chill of solitude,
With nothing but the wreckage of cigarette butts
And a plate filled with ash,
Embracing my grayness.
When I fall ill,
You bring me your most precious flowers,
Dear friend, to me,
And you place my hand in yours.
And you restore my color and vitality,
As the sun touches my cheeks.
I weep, and weep, without intent,
And you cover me with my blanket,
Placing my head upon the pillow.
I wish more than anything,
My friend, that I could remain
In this sickly state,
So you would inquire about me,
Bringing me beautiful flowers each day.
And if the phone rings in our home,
I fly to you, dearest friend,
With the joy of a small child,
Like a wandering swallow.
I embrace the static object,
Squeezing its cold wires,
And wait for the sound,
Your voice descending upon me,
Warm, full, and strong,
Like a prophet’s voice,
Like the crash of stars,
Like the fall of jewelry.
I weep, and weep,
For the thought of you,
For you from the balconies of eternity
Called out to me.
And when I come to you,
To borrow a book,
Feigning that I have come
Only to borrow a book,
You extend your tired fingers
To the shelf, and I remain
Amidst the fog of fog,
Like a question without an answer,
Staring at you and at the shelf
Like a good cat does.
Do you think you have discovered?
Do you realize?
That I came for more than just a book
And that I am nothing but a liar?
And in haste, you go to my chamber,
Hugging the book tightly to my chest,
As if I carried the entire existence with me.
I turn on my light, draw my curtains,
And dig through the lines, behind the lines,
I run behind punctuations,
Chasing after dots,
And my head spins,
Like a hungry little bird
Searching for the remnants of seeds.
Perhaps, oh my dear friend,
You’ve left in one of the corners
A brief phrase of love,
A minor garden of longing,
Perhaps between the pages, you concealed some words,
A gentle peace that returns serenity to me.
And when we are together on the road
And you unintentioanlly take my arm,
I feel, my friend,
A profound sensation,
One that resembles the taste of longing
At my elbow.
I raise my hand toward the sky,
Making my path infinite
And I weep, and weep without ceasing,
As my loss continues.
And when I return in the evening to my room
And remove the cloak from my shoulder,
I feel—even with you absent from my room—
That your hands have wrapped around my brow.
And I remain there to worship, oh fleeting one,
As if your warm fingers
Were resting on the sleeves of my blue dress,
And I cry, and cry without end,
As if my arms were not my own.