Haqeq Al Jannah
One day, I wandered through the kingdom of Paradise.
Lost, I asked it:
“Do you still care for us?”
Can a soul at peace
find its way back to its source?
Does the embryo remember
where it came from?
And vessels,
once shattered,
can they ever be made whole again?
Balaya
My head resting in my hand,
my fist against my cheek.
The many spread out
and cover over the experience of the One.
The experience of the One
dissolves into the many.
Father,
we laughed
after the threat had been made.
The lighthouse casts its light
upon the route of the shipwrecked,
yet the very hand that points the way
bars them from reaching it.
The many spread out
and cover over the experience of the One.
The experience of the One
dissolves into the many.
Splendid Tales
An immense rock,
heavy with secrets,
taught me how to dwell within my sorrow.
There will always be someone
to nod in agreement.
For every sorrow, its reward.
For every loss, its gain.
Mother,
unwind before me
the thread of secrets.
Take me back into yourself,
into the darkness of your womb,
where nothing yet
has a name.
Taya
Pearls for Orphans
You, the stubborn one,
you, strangely fashioned,
you fool.
She offers you a pearl
torn from the lion’s jaws.
Broken,
I press on without shame.
At the bottom of the gaze,
beneath the veil of hair,
stretches a horizon
no one can possess.
Jarda Al Wadi
The dried-up bed of the wadi
still offers itself to the flow.
She could bear nothing
but my desire.
And the wishes,
one by one,
gathered within my being.
She adorned herself before me,
then threw the abaya over her shoulders,
bringing forth
the seeds of my affliction.
She whirled around me.
Alas.
Beneath her hat
lay a secret adornment.
My soul cannot stop blushing.
From one kingdom to another,
she departed,
yet begged me to stay.
Amid a torrent
of proofs and certainties,
she abandoned me,
then vanished
into a pool of plenitude.
The Walker
She described me,
wandering from one quarter to another.
The pink flamingos
gather me up
and set me down elsewhere.
Why do you keep repeating this name
when the one it names
is no longer here?
She knows neither walking
nor unveiling.
And I,
I walk without end.
Sadiya — Purple Feather
Show me the proof.
Then imagine my prayer.
Is the becoming of the solitary
forever beyond our reach?
Remind the fortunate
that the destitute
are already on their way to Al-Mawssal.
Understand the bonds
that make me what I am.
You imagined his asceticism.
You made a dwelling of it.
You will reach the end
through the keeper,
then be cast to the farthest reaches,
like a pear offered up
to fill the void.
The one they raise up cried out.
The one they crucify cried out.
Help me.
Help me.
The pear withered,
then slipped away.
Pears unwind the wool
around the rosebush.
And you,
you set the plumb line,
you fasten bonds
to the tendons of donkeys.
You put out the fires,
then cross the days
when the heat crushes everything.
You tread upon the stones
with the tips of your garments.
One night,
the moon spills its light
over a world walled in by palms.
The clay of the zero degree:
a cage,
pierced by the hole of the م.
Our children demonstrate
the power of God.
They stone the sky,
pierce the clouds,
and the stones come crashing down
upon the globes of the eyes.
The thermometer hovers
at two degrees.
Some make chechias.
Others guide the pilgrims.
Still others sew garments
from the skins of animals.
All forget
that our bodies recover their warmth
only once they are naked.
Woe to the Sabians!
The lanterns of day
illuminate the hearts of idols.
Woe to the Sabians,
who summon birds
only to sell them
to beasts of burden.
Stone against stone.
I freed my foot
from the plumb line.
Kneeling,
my back against the cactus,
I questioned the silence:
Has God endured,
or is He duration itself?
Am I the sovereign
to whom the final word belongs?
Or is God alone
the absolute sovereign?
Load your camels.
Stock the souk.
Then, at Al-Rabadha,
die strangled
by the twisted cord.
Eat the francolin, then,
O Ahmed.
Let them dwell in towers,
O Ahmed.
And let us dwell in drawers,
O Ahmed,
piled among the clothes
and the jewels.
The Poet’s Cry
Had I known the path of the soul,
I would have lit every crossroads.
But my ailing body
is surrendered to violence.
O Noah,
tell me:
where does being make landfall
when its own body
becomes its flood?