The soul departing from trees of speech
Does not want to ascend
Nor to be buried;
It wants to finish reading.
..
My heart is a stone that stumbled in the dirt and broke apart
..
O the mud of the storm,
heavy, it drags my soul
From one tavern to another
My hand is a cage that forgot to lock its door
So speech flew away
..
I am made of music
That departs on an evening jaunt
To the garden of the unknown
..
Wherever my sorrow comes to preside
Mud is my door
Outside the blathering cemetery
a lone word was lost
And began to limp
..
My garden throne was forlorn;
peopled with memories
..
My heart,
a garden filled with thrones
The signal was green
We crossed the road to eternity
In familiar forms of transportation
..
In the furor of death
A new tree sprouted
In fine script
..
Its scent is like infirmity,
This soul
It was as it must be
I was as I must be
But we did not agree
..
In a hefty handbag
I abandoned my superstition.
The soul travels, rising, falling
From an expensive handbag
Out leaks my mud
..
Who can direct me toward mud that resembles my dust.
“Electronic Thorns” © Reem Allawati. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2019 by Ghayde Ghraowi. All rights reserved.