هذي القصيدة.. إلى محمود درويش وهو يعبر إحدى محطات أبديته

Just as poets write their wills

Will you ever write this poem?

But

Why

And where

And whether

Who will complete the rest of the story

Who will dare to reclaim the beginning

And what will you answer the gossipers if they ask about you

Has the well of your tales dried up and departed

And who will entice the wine of letters with its cups

Just as you always did

Combing the evening's hair with your poetry

Until it lights its lamps with the morning that has not yet

(sought it) since time immemorial

This poem is not like other poems

Its letters still have the ember of a sleepy glance

But

Since you began to tame it

Whenever its spirit burst into flames

You cried, this is me

So how did you rewind the clock

Since we wept until they brought me here

And how did we carve for it in the paths of metaphor a metaphor

So we lost our way

And how did we walk with all these letters

Without ever realizing that your voice was the one leading us

And how

And how

Without an appointment that did not betray the anxiety of the wind

You went alone searching in the pool of letters

For a flower that fell in the gardens of your eyes

And the pupils of metaphor widened in your eyes

For a being

You resembled

Who resembled us