The huts were of mud and hay,
their thin roofs feared the rain,
and walls slouched like humbled men.
The streets were laid out in a grid,
as in New York,
but without the dignity of names
or asphalt. Dust reigned.
Women grew pale
chickens and chidren
feeding them fables from the lost land.
And a madman sawed the minaret
where a melodious voice
cried for help on behalf of the believers.
Of course I gazed at the sky
on clear nights,
at stars drizzling
soft grains of light,
at the moon's deliberate face,
at the good angel wrapped in purple air.
I had no ladder
and nothing from heaven fell
in my crescent hands.
Ah, how I cursed Adam and Eve
and the ones who made them refugees.
I love you
I do not want to link you with any memory of the past
nor with the memory of passing trains
you are the last train; night and day it travels
across the veins of my hands
You are the last train
and I am your last station.
I love you
I do not wish to link you with water... or wind
with the Muslim or Christian calendars
with the motion of ebb and flow
with the hours of solar and lunar eclipse
I do not care what the observatories say
nor the signs in the coffee cup
for your eyes alone are the prophecy
They alone are responsible
for the joy in the world.
