from Transformations of the Lover

The body of the poet
is the body of the child and the crow.
A body in a book,
in the ashes of the curtains,
in the door,
in the stone staying up all night,
between my eyes and the book.
A body in the corners,
in the mirage procreating under the mirrors.
A body travelling farther and farther,
a flying stone which receives or beats the sky.
A body which opens in dreams,
closes at night, stretches between the letters.
A body like the letters.
A body retreating in the forefront of the lines.
A body like a suspended road,
unfolding its leaves and questioning space,
where the echo doesn't know its roles,
where there is nothing on my approaching stage
except the echo and the curtain...

tr. Kamal Abu-Deeb


1 comment:

  1. a body which is no body after all, but the poem itself, no? either an imaginary body created by the reader in the act of reading or one emerging from the letters on the space of the page, equally illusory and ungraspable...