Translated from the Arabic by Khaled Mattawa

In Jeirun there is a door made of roses.
Passersby bathe in its scent.
There is a tent for wounds,
there is a forest for the morning,
its branches are bridges that eyes track
toward the wind’s ferry
leading to another morning.
Nights are houses where the tired rest.
They dust their flutes and read
the books of water and dust.
They turn their trusted tears into
beads and laurel garlands,
necklaces, and a wound of roses in whose streams
passersby bathe.


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