لا تلتفتْ

And you lead the chariots of language.
Do not look at my broken mirrors,
for my restless tent
tries to forget a shadow it left behind a closed door.
Take my hand towards a forest
where its trees give birth every dawn,
so I can hang my tales on its branches
like ancient lamps
that illuminate the darkness of words.
Place me in the heart of a calm river,
to wash my texts that have been stained by their shame.
Then I will barter them in the silver market,
and buy embroidered handkerchiefs with the certainty of waiting,
or on a balcony draped in jasmine
to watch you scatter the dust of disappointment from your eyes.
Do not turn to the songs of the wind,
and do not ask about my secrets hidden in the rosebuds.
Look directly into my eyes,
like a hunter looks at an injured bird,
and grants it freedom with a trembling hand.
Speak of me as if you are telling a legend
to children who do not know the meaning of dust.
And say that I used to illuminate the tales that passed through them
with colored letters,
and that I used to write long poems
just to harvest the fruits of wonder at their ends.
Say that I used to make from words
paper boats,
and let them sail in the stream of dreams.
And that I used to make from the echo of your voice
necklaces for the wind,
and hang them around the neck of the evening.
And you lead the chariots of language,
take my hand and walk
like a sun that intertwines its hands
behind its back.
Turn around just once,
and I will smile as if you
are the entirety of life in my eyes.