Soldiers
Golan Haji
And how I will hide this dead man who is climbing my legs
And what is the difference between my name and this dry scratch
Between my face and the spitting bowls of the tuberculosis patients
Since I live with what I mortify and radiate with what I forget
And I am not afraid not to be understood
But I am afraid not to be loved
If I sneak like a thief into the house of language
Where everything I write is an accusation that turns against me and threatens me
Where everyone who reads me kills me and says:
Doesn't this nonsense have an end?
Translated from Arabic by the author |
