شعورٌ مُخيف

In the square of the London museum

where your hand passed through during the day

over all those statues

and the light rectangular paper

the light..

I was dozing;

on a balcony of the snow of distance

I watch that sheer curtain..

I was trying to weave the fingers,

but those fingers do not meet

two banks,

and a river,

and a terrifying night..

It passes here,

between my hand and yours,

a thousand winters and a thousand autumns,

and you race that road

and fold the distance,

inside me,

in the cells that

you breathed in,

and created from certainty and shadow..

And that sidewalk,

that I still,

am measuring;

between what, and how?!

Peace dies,

and my hand dries,

and that metallic expanse

torn

between stillness and whisper..

Here (the eye) crosses

the eye of the seer with the eye of the blind..

And between you and me a day is born,

on which the story sleeps at night,

to bake in the dawn like bread

And between the story and love

comes the gift

that I do not love;

as if a host

is flattering a guest..

And my hand still extends:

Peace,

and that meeting dies

because the distance is injustice and oppression..

There I dry,

and wither

and wither,

and your hand is still among my ribs

turning them

and the bleeding.. the bleeding..

And that distance is ashamed of me

and you came seeking:

Indeed, the station of emotional love

is a ridiculous station..

So, O you who sing on the string of love,

forget the poem,

do not feign,

for my loyal heart

that is in your hands

turns its strings,

without fear

of that love melody,

a weak heart

a weak heart..