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Who will tell the sun about my land
my harried medlar tree
my springtime without nervures
my helpful hand
Who will recount my rootless
garden
and my door open
to all comers
my night of faraway sounds
my wheat that absorbs
the hours
Who will cure me
of my sequestration
and sweet secret
—my monochrome dream
my space gone gray at the temples
the barter of my frenzy
the slumber at the edge
of my well of fever
My steppe with an abundance of laughter
Perhaps it would be enough . . .
But I watch
time passing
“La Nuit du dedans” © Djamal Amrani. Translation © 2019 by Marilyn Hacker. All rights reserved.
