أدركَكَ المغيبُ بخطْوةِ الخمسينَ

They hid themselves to the pulse of your being in the outskirts of the candle

cloaked in frost with the shivering of the walls

No shadow tempts the heart of shade within you

No flicker is caressed by the shirt of sleep

Have you realized that you are a magician who has lost his footing and been betrayed by his cane?

Or have you sheltered your illusion so it can comb its forgotten feathers in the trunk of the pillow?

You are the elder of snow

The soldier of worries

The tamer of stars

Leaping from the eyelids of the wind like a juggler

Are you trembling now?!

Have you grown up?

Or has autumn taken hold of you?

Ask your bed about the gifts of erasure

About the sadness of the stranger

And remind the walls of their secrets

The doors in the whispers of fingers

Make peace with the heavy fatigue with the pride of the Bedouin lover

You stay awake whenever they sleep to taste the hunger of your longing, O friend of nowhere

Cook your glowing fingers

Here is paper moaning

There the devil of the poem is reassured

Your aching bed asks where its mare is

The pavement sleeps on its coldness.

Sleep, O son of your coldness, O milk of sorrow

The sunset has caught you with the step of fifty

May you be spared, O prophet of light, your half drowning in the urge for interpretation

The lovers have lied to you

You have quenched your thirst from the elegies

And you have noticed the corpse of the narrator - you - conversing with the nightmare, searching for the breath of things

For a door to the fire of denial after the first paradise;

There is a scene leading to the utmost severance

The scene of the terrified guided by the blind.

Silence has a voice that washes the distorted meaning in the bitter labor

The confusion of time around you has bewildered you, O descendant of the first disappointment

This heart has become entangled in you

It carries you like a bird escaping the trap of contradiction

Searching for a space of meaning while the letters imprison it.

You mumble as if you are a blind poet dragging your emptiness into the unseen

Suspicions steal you from tranquility

Every rib in you is broken by stories that do not sleep

You built a hut from the ashes of illusion

Spreading your withered wing to those who have grown and have not turned to your shadow in the gust of yesterday as the days aged with it

Conceited with your sorrow, you burn the past to grow in your space the awe of the captive within the walls of loved ones

Do not sleep on the ground

Sleep in the house of your poetry so you can see your confused tomorrow reading the past with the eye of the falcon

The eclipse has concealed you.

Take me with your wound

So we can mummify our cold night in the window of our estrangement

And mock our losses with the pause of time

I and you and our bleeding wound are guests..